


Beautiful Disaster

by LarasLandlockedBlues



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Confident Cullen Rutherford, Cullen Rutherford Smut, Cullen Smut, Cullenlingus, Dorian is a Good Friend, Drinking to Cope, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Getting to Know Each Other, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Jealous Cullen, Language Barrier, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, MGiT, Marriage, Married Couple, Married Life, Masturbation, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Minor Rylen/Original Female Character, Modern Girl in Thedas, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, POV Cullen Rutherford, POV Original Character, Possessive Cullen Rutherford, Possessive Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Protective Cullen Rutherford, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Smut, Unplanned Pregnancy, Wedding Fluff, minor Male Trevelyan/Josephine Montilyet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 13:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 123,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13388802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LarasLandlockedBlues/pseuds/LarasLandlockedBlues
Summary: When she thought about how much she wanted to get away, she never realized just how far she would end up.Just another Modern Girl in Thedas story.





	1. No Signal

_Phone._

_Charger._

_Laptop, power cord._

_The USB – hit send on the email, after checking the address. Shut the laptop, stuff it into your bag._

_Your journal, don’t forget it._

_Ring – you can pawn it, you’ll need the money._

_Fuck – what about clothes? Grab a coat, it’s January._

 

“I wish you’d listen to me!” he shouts, trying to position himself in the doorway.

“Get out of my way,” she requests calmly, still trying to shove a few pairs of underwear into the large tote bag on her shoulder.

“It – listen, it’s not -”

“Don’t even try to say it’s not what it looks like!” she cries. Or rather doesn’t. She’s been calm this whole time, amazed that tears aren’t streaming down her cheeks, that her voice isn’t trembling. “You think I don’t know, that I can’t tell from a picture that it’s you? Seven years – _seven years_. I’m not an idiot.”

_Don’t forget your wallet. Where are your keys?_

_In your hand. Perfect._

 

He’s still shouting, still trying to block the doorway, interrupting her internal monologue as she tries to make sure she has everything, that she has the essentials. She can get the rest later.

 

_You have your keys. Go. Leave._

_Walk away._

“Move, please,” she demands.

“Babe, let me explain, let’s talk about this -” he’s pleading with her.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she sighs. “I don’t need to know why. You did it. I don’t need to know anything else.”

“So you’re just determined not to be cool about this.”

“Cool? You expect me to be cool about a picture of your dick in someone else’s mouth?” It’s the first time her voice shakes, the first time she almost cracks, saying it aloud. “Sorry to disappoint you, then. I’m only interested in leaving, not being cool.”

She’s done asking nicely, and finally just pushes past him to leave. He trails after her, still trying to get her to stay, still yelling about how she doesn’t know the full story. That he’s sorry, that he didn’t know the picture would make its way to her.

She doesn’t care, and she doesn’t listen. Instead she simply grabs her coat and walks out the door, unlocking her car and throwing her bag into the passenger seat before she gets in. He runs out of the house, still trying to call her back.

She doesn’t even look back.

Turning the car on, she backs out of the driveway and turns down the street, driving faster than she should in the neighborhood but just knowing she needs to get out of there.

 _Seven years_. Seven years of her life wasted, seven years that she was a fool to stay. She thinks of the promotion she turned down because it would have meant moving, of the opportunities she’d passed over so she could be with him. Of the four years she had worn this ring but hadn’t even started to plan a wedding.

Deep down, she’s certain she knew. She just never wanted to admit it to herself.

She’s not paying close attention to where she’s driving, lost in her thoughts about the way she’s wasted some of the best years of her life.

She hardly notices that she’s the only one driving the winding roads through the thick trees. She doesn’t notice anything until suddenly it’s raining, and she can hardly see a thing.

“What the hell?” she leans forward, looking up, but there’s hardly any clouds in the sky. She slows, trying to see through the rain, and notices the sky is beginning to tinge green.

Green usually means tornadoes, at least – it did where she used to live.

Lightning ripples across the sky, but it’s unlike any lightning she’s ever seen, forking into intricate patterns and reflecting the green of the sky.

She suddenly isn’t sure if she should pull over or keep going, and she fumbles with her bag beside her for her phone.

“Shit, where -”

But she never finishes that sentence.

Something bolts across the road and stops in front of her, and she swerves, but the car skids.

And then she’s flipping, her body weightless, everything upside down and a blur as she’s thrown around. There’s green light, a roar, something almost sounds like it explodes.

She doesn’t even have time to scream before darkness descends.

 

* * *

 

Wet, and cold. That’s all she knows.

She grimaces and feels something freezing and almost prickly against her face, and after a moment she recognizes it.

Snow. Old snow, the kind that’s almost ice, and hard.

She blinks open her eyes and is immediately blinded by white, the sun reflecting on the snow she’s lying in. It makes her head throb, and hurts her eyes more than it should. Every bit of her aches, and she slowly begins to push herself up so she can look around.

Nothing looks familiar to her. There hadn’t been snow on the ground where she was, and also – where the hell was her car?

She looks around, thoroughly confused, seeing nothing that she recognizes around her. She realizes she’s holding her phone in her hand, somehow, and she swipes the screen to turn it on.

_No signal. Great_.

 

She’s not sure what she expected, though. She’s not even sure she’s still in her town, or even in her state. It definitely hadn’t been snowing or snow-covered where she had been, and nothing at all looks familiar. It doesn’t look like anywhere she’s ever been before.

She notices stinging on her forehead and brushes the spot with her fingers, and groans when they come away with blood on them. The spot is throbbing, and her vision is slightly blurry.

 

_Has to be a concussion. Fuck._

She stares down at her phone again, not even knowing what she’s doing. After a moment she realizes it’s no use to her, but she might need it later. She turns it off, hoping to conserve the battery until she’s somewhere she has signal.

Steadying herself, she pushes up in the snow and tries to stand, stumbling slightly before she finds solid footing. She looks around, uncertain which direction she should go. Everywhere around her is just snow, and trees, and some boulders. She turns and looks behind her, and that’s when she sees it.

The sky is torn, it’s swirling and green, with black clouds and large _rocks_ and debris floating in it. Her mouth drops open as she stares at it, thoroughly at a loss of what she is looking at.

“What the fuck,” she mutters to herself, looking around and then back up at the sky. “Maybe – maybe I’m dead.”

She’s seen something like that before, but there’s no way that she’s actually seeing it now, here, up in the sky above her and not on a screen.

 

 _Must have hit my head harder than I thought_.

 

Her hands on her hips, she simply stares up at the sky for several moments, trying to wrap her head around it. Because if that’s there, in the sky –

She looks around and finally decides to start walking, making her way one step at a time through the crunchy snow. Even if it’s a dream, she doesn’t have to be completely useless and just lie there in the snow. She can try to make it to the village, maybe find something for the pain in her head. She can walk until she wakes up. As she goes she feels in the pockets of her coat, trying to determine what she has with her.

 

_Phone._

_Cigarettes – full, luckily._

_Lighter._

_Lip balm._

_Crumpled up receipt._

She sighs and returns everything to her pockets. Wishing she had kept her multi-tool or pepper spray in her coat pocket and not her purse, she sighs and keeps walking.

There’s no one in sight, which is odd. But as she continues to walk she’s fairly certain she can hear clashes in the distance, and she stops dead in her tracks as she realizes what the sounds are.

Swords. Fighting.

Her heart starts racing, and for several moments she’s simply paralyzed. The sounds of battle – and she’s here in the snow, with a concussion and absolutely no way to defend herself. What is she going to do, show them her receipts and complain about the price of wine?

Zipping her puffy black coat and pulling up the fur lined hood, she begins to creep forward, hoping that maybe she can avoid the clashes as she goes. She checks the air frequently, hoping she doesn’t stumble upon a rift.

 

_Stumble upon a rift._

 

That’s something she never thought she’d be thinking. She shakes her head and mutters to herself as she goes, occasionally having to stop to steady herself. Her head is hurting worse, her vision blurring with tears as the sun reflects off the snow and blinds her. But she needs to keep going, and she presses herself forward.

Shouts suddenly fill the air and she looks around, but turning her neck so quickly makes her vision swim and she collapses to her knees. Crunching footsteps sound in the snow, and someone with a deep voice is shouting at her in a strange language. She peers up, and through the blurriness and blackening of her vision, she sees someone in armor rushing toward her with their sword drawn.

When they get close enough she sees that they have a tattoo on their chin, and as they continue to shout at her she thinks they almost sound Scottish. Or at least – something similar.

She laughs to herself softly as she realizes who’s in front of her, and she tries to speak. But suddenly everything begins to spin, and she can only assume she’s waking up.

 

 _Finally_.


	2. Stranger

He hasn’t slept in who knows how long, and he feels sluggish as he follows Rylen through the Chantry to the cells below. So much has happened in the last few days, and even though the Breach is stabilized and the Herald is resting, he still hasn’t been able to take a break.

And now he’s having to deal with the strange woman they found in the snow, since she’s finally awake.

Rylen leads him down the corridor and steps aside to allow him into the room before him. Cassandra is already there, staring down at the woman in shackles.

Cullen stops as he takes in her appearance, uncertain what to make of it.

She’s wearing a top that’s puffy, almost shiny in the light, a material he’s never seen before. It has a fur-lined hood like a cloak, but the entire thing only goes to her hips and is closed around her somehow. Her pants are black, but again look like a material he’s unfamiliar with. Her tall black boots at least look like leather, but they’re too shiny, as if new, as if she’s never worn them before, or as if she doesn’t actually walk or ride a horse in them.

Her skin is white, so white it’s almost shining like the snow outside in the torchlight. Hair that’s chocolate brown hangs in a straight sheet halfway down her back, parts of it near the ends glinting red and golden as she looks around. There’s a large bruise on her forehead, with a gash – it’s clear she hit her head on something. That at least explains why she was unconscious for so long.

She’s looking around, her almond shaped eyes wide as she takes in the cell and Cassandra looming over her. She bites her rose-colored lips, worrying and licking them in her nervousness. The sight is mildly distracting to him, since her lips are full and plush like pillows, and he vaguely wonders what it would be like to kiss them.

He shakes his head to clear it, determining that it’s the lack of sleep and battling demons for days that’s making his mind wander in that direction. He notices that her cheeks are dry, which interests him.

She hasn’t cried, even when faced with the Seeker’s questioning.

“What has she said, Cassandra?” he asks as he stops before their prisoner.

“Well – nothing, um, useful,” the Seeker sighs. “She doesn’t appear to speak Common.”

Cullen raises his eyebrows and studies the woman’s face again. She peers up at him, and suddenly she’s laughing, giggling and shaking her head like she can’t believe what she’s looking at.

“She’s done that a few times, now,” Cassandra frowns. “I think she might not be right in the head.”

 “Do you understand me?” Cullen asks.

The woman quiets herself and looks back up at him, pursing her full lips for a moment before she opens her mouth to speak. “Fo esruoc Nelluc gnikcuf Drofrehtur si ereh.”

He quirks a brow as he stares at her, thoroughly confused about what she said. It’s unlike any language he’s ever heard. “Has Leliana tried? She knows several languages, doesn’t she?”

Cassandra shrugs. “She couldn’t understand or place it either.”

He studies the woman before them for a moment, amazed at the way she simply stares up at him and holds his gaze. “m'I ton neve erus s'tahw gniog no, I t'nod wonk woh I tog ereh. Nac uoy – esaelp, tsuj tel em og.”

Cullen takes a step forward and kneels before the woman. This close, her eyes are brown, but they’re shining positively yellow in the light of the room, reflecting back at him like a cat’s or like liquid gold. “I – do you know any Common? We can’t understand you, please.”

She frowns and stares at him, and then groans and looks around as if thinking. “S'il vous plaît, je suis juste une femme des États-Unis, je ne sais pas comment je suis arrivé ici."

He shakes his head, still unable to understand her. But if he isn’t wrong, that’s a different language than the one she used before. When she sees the bewildered look on his face, she bites her lip and considers before she tries another. And then another. He can’t tell what she’s saying, but he can tell from the way she moves her mouth, the way she changes her voice and accent.

How many languages can she know, but none of them are ones that he recognizes from Thedas?

“One of those almost sounded Orlesian, the other – Antivan? But they weren’t, they just sounded similar. Where do you think she came from?” Cassandra asks from behind him.

“I’m – I’m not sure. Maybe her head was rattled, maybe when she hit her head -” but he stops talking because the woman is gesturing intently.

He watches as she points at Cassandra, and then suddenly says, “Cassandra,” although her accent on the name is stilted.

“How did she -” Cassandra takes a step forward, glaring down at the chained woman.

The prisoner looks at Cullen and points at him before she says, “Cul-len.”

He raises his eyebrows. “How do you know my name?”

But she rolls her eyes and points at him again, repeating his name. She points at herself then, and says, “Cecilia.”

When her word gets no reaction she repeats the motions, repeating his and Cassandra’s names and then pointing at herself, saying once more, “Cecilia. Celia.”

“Ce-cecilia?” Cullen asks, and she nods emphatically. “Your name is Cecilia?” He points at her as he says the word.

“Cecilia,” she repeats with a smile. “Celia,” she says, and she holds her index and thumb up, as if trying to measure something small.

“Celia? Is that – a nickname? You’re Celia?” he asks. Again he’s greeted with a nod and a smile.

“Well at least we know her name, now,” Cassandra sighs. “But where did you come from?”

The woman frowns at Cassandra and shrugs. “I llits t’nac dnatsrednu uoy.”

Cullen sighs and stands, rubbing his forehead. He’s beginning to get a headache.

“Do you think maybe she’s a mage?” Cassandra asks. “Maybe something in the Fade -”

“There’s an easy way to find that out,” Cullen turns back to face their prisoner, and he draws on the last bit of lyrium in his veins, the bit that remains from how he’s trying to wean himself off of it. He casts a Silence, but the woman before him simply peers up at him, frowning slightly.

“Well, I suppose that’s a good thing,” Cassandra sighs. “What should we do with her? We can’t determine if she is a threat if we can’t understand her, or ask her.”

He frowns down at the woman, and notices that she simply holds his gaze. He’s curious, wondering why she doesn’t seem more frightened. Although when he looks at Cassandra and then back, he notices that she’s swallowing hard, gulping as if it’s difficult for her.

She’s putting on a brave face. He glances down at her hands and notices her fingers gripping each other tightly, her knuckles white from how strong her grasp is. She’s trying to hide their shaking.

“Does she have anything on her?” he asks Cassandra, turning back.

“Nothing that makes sense,” the Seeker turns to the table she was leaning against and gestures at several small items.

There’s a black brick with a glass front, made of a material that intrigues him. There’s a pack of some small white sticks that smell herbal, a silver square, and a small tube with colorful packaging and strange writing on it. A thin piece of what seems like parchment is also there, crumpled up and covered in strange writing and symbols in lines.

He can’t make sense of any of it.

He picks up the silver square and discovers that it opens, and inside looks like some sort of flint device. Holding it before him, he turns back to the prisoner – Cecilia – and gestures wordlessly to it.

She holds up a hand imploringly, and he hesitates only a moment before he hands it to her. With a flick of her thumb she turns the small wheel on it, and suddenly there’s fire glowing at her fingertips.

“Is that magic?” Cassandra gasps.

Cullen frowns. There’s no hum of magic in the air, instead he saw a spark. “No – it’s just – Maker, how?”

Cecilia is looking up at them above the flames, and he can’t help but be impressed. “Did you make that? How did you -”

She shrugs and closes the lid, then opens it again and holds it out to him. When he takes it from her, she taps his thumb with her finger and then motions for him to flick the wheel. He does, and it takes several attempts before he manages to replicate the fire she did.

“That’s – I’ve never seen anything like that,” Cassandra muses from beside him. “That must be useful, but I – I wonder where she got it.”

“Maybe she made it. Maybe this is what she does,” Cullen closes the lid and stares down at the prisoner. “She doesn’t seem…dangerous.”

“No,” Cassandra agrees. “Perhaps rattled in the head, from the blow she took. But – maybe we should keep an eye on her? I’m not certain she needs to be in a cell -”

“She could stay with you -”

“She could stay with you -”

They glare at each other for a moment.

“She can’t stay with me, it wouldn’t be decent,” Cullen tries to explain but Cassandra shakes her head.

“I think it would be best if you keep an eye on her,” Cassandra says. “If she does somehow end up being magical, or dangerous -”

“You are just as well equipped to deal with her as I am,” Cullen protests.

“I need to see to the Herald,” she says shortly and turns to grab the keys to the shackles. “You, on the other hand, can keep an eye on her.”

He groans and rubs his forehead, dragging his hand over his eyes. “Maker’s breath,” he sighs, and then watches as Cassandra removes the prisoner’s manacles.

Once they’re removed Cecilia rubs her wrists and looks between the two of them. “Era uoy gnittel em og?”

Cullen holds a hand out to her to help her to her feet, and she hesitantly takes it. He gestures for her to follow him, and she picks up her items from the table before she looks between he and Cassandra.

“Come on,” he tells her, trying to fight the irritation in his voice.

Without a second look at Cassandra or the cell she follows him through the corridor and up into the Chantry. She replaces the items in pockets in her strange cloak, and before they exit the Chantry she pulls the hood up to hide her face.

Cullen shakes his head as he leads her through Haven, wondering why the Maker saw fit to send her into his path.

Didn’t he have enough on his mind without a gibberish spouting mystery woman to look after?


	3. 98%

Cullen fucking Rutherford.

Cecilia follows along behind him, watching the way he almost swaggers as he walks – or is it staggering? She can’t tell, but she noticed the bags under his eyes. It’s clear he hasn’t slept in ages.

She looks around Haven, and notices by its state that _it_ must be recent. The Herald must still be asleep.

She shakes her head, again digging her black varnished nails into her palm, trying to determine if it’s a dream. She was certain that she was waking up when she passed out in the snow.

She was in a car accident. She remembers that much at least. Something had run out in front of her car, and there had been an odd storm all around her.

She glances up at the Breach again, realizing that the storm had been green, and electrical. She’s not sure she understands it, but she’s beginning to wonder if the two are related.

Thedas. Somehow, she physically woke up in Thedas.

Moving through Haven and trying to soak it all in, she realizes that she’s partially in shock. She’s seeing everything as if through a haze, as if she’s disconnected from it. She’s experienced this before, when she’s been overwhelmed and panicking in certain situations, in crowds or during presentations. And that time she met that Ambassador, when she tripped over her words and accidentally called him an “ass” in his native language.

Her anxiety is nearly overwhelming her, and she realizes with a twinge that she doesn’t have her medicine, or anything she would usually use to help calm herself down. Do they have tea in Thedas? If she meditates will he think that she’s trying to summon a force to kill him?

She can tell they’ve decided she isn’t very dangerous, but they must assume she needs to be watched or else she wouldn’t be following Cullen like she needs a babysitter. Occasionally he glances back at her, and it’s clear he’s suspicious of her. He also looks irritated, and she wishes she knew how to tell him he doesn’t need to worry about her.

All he has to worry about from her is her swooning if he smiles at her.

They finally reach his tent and he holds open the flap, gesturing with his hand for her to precede him in. She hesitates, suddenly realizing she’s about to be alone with a strange man – sure, she’s seen him on a screen before, but this is different.

Thedas wasn’t supposed to be real. He wasn’t supposed to be real.

And she has no idea what to expect now that she’s actually here, now that both of these things are actually real.

“M’i ton gniog ot truh uoy,” he says. His tone is just as deep as she expected, though it’s odd to hear the unfamiliar language coming out of his mouth in that voice.

 

_What I wouldn’t give for subtitles._

 

She sighs and finally walks by him to enter the tent, clenching her fists. Fear and anxiety course through her, and she hates herself for it. Is it too much to ask that for just one day, she function like a regular person?

And then she remembers everything she’s been through in just a few hours – or has it been a day? She realizes she doesn’t even know how long it’s been. She's not certain a regular person would handle any of this much differently, considering all of the unusual circumstances.

“Celia?”

She jumps when she hears his voice say her name, shivers running up and down her spine as she turns to face him. He’s frowning at her, looking worried that he frightened her.

“Od uoy deen gnihtemos ot tae?” he asks, and then immediately rubs a hand across his eyes when he realizes she can’t understand him. He sighs and lowers his hand, staring at her for a moment before he gestures with his hands as if raising something to his mouth, out of a –

“Oh, you want to know if I’m hungry,” she says, understanding dawning on her face. But he frowns when she speaks, and she knows he still can’t comprehend her words. “I – I guess I am hungry, I can’t remember when I last ate…”

After a moment she nods her head eagerly, trying to make sure he understands that she’s saying ‘yes.’ He returns her nod and looks around for a moment before he gestures out of the tent and then holds up a finger.

“I’ll wait here, then,” she says, and he hesitates only a moment before he leaves the tent and she can hear him walking away from her. “What the fuck have I gotten myself into,” she sighs after he leaves, looking around the tent.

It’s simple, with just a desk and a chair, a cot, and his armor stand in the corner. There’s a trunk beside the armor stand, but otherwise no storage. She runs a hand through her hair as she takes it all in, her mind still churning.

She had wanted to get away, sure.

But she had been trying to drive to her friend’s house to stay until she was able to find her own place. She had meant to leave without _him_ knowing, she hadn’t intended for it to be a confrontation. She had just meant to disappear.

Now, she supposes, she actually has.

Her stomach twists into knots as she thinks about her friends, and how they might be wondering where she is. Instinctively she pulls her phone out of her pocket, but just as she’s about to turn it on she remembers.

No signal.

There’s absolutely no point in turning her phone back on. She won’t be able to call anyone, she won’t be able to send anyone a text to tell them where she is. As far as they’re concerned, she’s gone.

She wonders if they’re sending out search parties, if they’ve found her car, abandoned and wrecked.

She wonders if _he’s_ putting on airs that he’s concerned, or leading the searches like he’s the concerned fiancé.

She stares down at the ring on her finger, realizing it might be essentially useless now. She had intended to sell it for a deposit on a new place, but now – were diamonds valuable in Thedas? Even if they are, how will she be able to barter with it, considering she doesn’t speak any of the languages?

She glowers at the phone in her hand, essentially a useless brick now.

But sudden intense melancholy comes upon her as she finally realizes she may never make it back, she may never see anyone ever again.

She turns the phone on, glancing up to see if Cullen is coming back. She’s not certain what he would make of her phone, especially not after his reaction to her lighter.

As soon as her phone turns on, she swipes it to open it, but she had forgotten what she had had it open to before she crashed.

She’s greeted with _it_ , the picture that had led her down this path. She stares for a moment, bitterness coursing through her as she thinks about how much this picture has now ruined.

 

_Seven years._

 

With a jolt she realizes she likely won’t ever know what happens. She’d sent off the email, and then she’d driven off, and now – well, now she’s here, in a world she only ever thought was fictional.

She hears footsteps approaching and she powers her phone down.

 

_Ninety-eight percent._

 

She wonders why she cares if it still has any charge.

She pockets it just as Cullen returns to the tent, carrying a small tray laden with two bowls and a large crusty loaf of bread.

 _At least Thedas has bread_ , she muses with a small smile.

Cullen seems to have caught her smile, and he returns it hesitantly, his scarred lip tugging up at the corner.

She feels her heart speed up and she gulps.

She never imagined that he would be standing in front of her, flesh and blood and _oh so tall and broad_.

He walks to the desk and sets the tray down, turning to look at her and gesturing to it. She takes a step forward and peers down into the bowls. It’s some sort of stew, it looks like, but she doesn’t recognize the chunks of meat in it.

“Do I even want to ask what that is?” she asks, and when she looks up she sees him rubbing the back of his neck as if he’s frustrated. “Sorry, should I just stop speaking at all? You seem more irritated not knowing what I’m saying than if I’m just silent.”

Her words are met with a scowl.

Languages are her strength, though, and she’s beginning to wonder how hard it will be to learn Common. The only issue is that she has no reference, no books she can compare and translate it with. She’s fluent in over five languages from Earth, though, and suddenly she’s thinking that she can at least learn passable conversational Common.

At least, enough to speak with the tall Commander who’s looking at her sheepishly when he notices that she hasn’t touched the food he brought her.

“Si ereht gnihtemos gnorw htiw eht doof?” he asks, but again he scowls. He gestures impatiently to the food, staring intently at her as he does so.

She giggles lightly and shakes her head, finally reaching out for one of the bowls. She smells it and can tell already that it's bland, that it doesn’t have the same sort of spices or seasoning stew at home would. Still, it’s enough to get her taste buds watering, and she picks up a spoon and begins to eat.

Cullen watches her for several long moments before he picks up his own bowl. He eats as if he’s ravenous, and halfway through his stew he seems to remember himself and tries to slow how he’s devouring his food.

She giggles again, unable to help herself.

If it’s recent, if it’s not long after the Breach – she can only imagine he hasn’t eaten in days, really. She sets her bowl down and begins to tear chunks off the loaf of bread he brought, holding one out to him.

He frowns, and then nods, giving her a sheepish and grateful grin as he takes it from her.

Again, the smile makes her heart race and her mouth goes dry. She licks her lips to alleviate the feeling, and she notices his eyes following the movement.

 

_Was he just checking me out?_

 

She shakes her head and picks her stew back up, trying to distract her racing mind with finally trying the mystery meat in the stew. It’s tough, but not repulsive.

_I probably just ate nug and liked it._

 

She chuckles to herself, and when he frowns at her she shakes her head and gestures to the bowl and smiles appreciatively. He nods slowly and then goes back to his own stew.

They finish eating in silence, and when they’re done he begins to shuffle reports on his desk. It’s starting to get late out, and she realizes she has to use the bathroom. She looks around and notices a distinct lack of chamber pot, which at least means she won’t have to go in front of him. But she has no idea how to ask him where she should go.

Back on Earth, she could ask this in nearly twenty languages.

Here, she can’t even guess at the word for toilet, and she tries to think of the best gesture to convey her need without thoroughly mortifying herself.

She lightly clears her throat and when he looks up, she does what would be called, ‘the potty dance,’ by parents back on Earth.

She cringes, hating herself. But it’s too late to take it back now.

He takes a moment and then nods in understanding, and he sets down his reports to walk around the desk. Holding the tent flap open for her, he waits until she exits before he begins to swiftly lead her through the village.

It’s essentially a ditch, and she sighs when she sees it.

He clears his throat and pointedly turns his back, but she realizes he’s not going to leave.

 

_He must be having to keep watch over me, like they think I’m a threat._

 

She groans and resigns herself to doing it, and after struggling with her clothes and trying to make certain she doesn’t get any on her, she successfully relieves herself.

 

_This is my life now._

 

She fastens her jeans and rejoins him where he’s standing, and after giving her a clipped nod he leads her back to his tent. Once inside he looks around for a moment, and then begins to pull the blankets and furs back on his cot.

She raises an eyebrow as she watches him, and he stands and gestures at the cot.

“Uoy nac peels ereh, ll’i eb enif no eht roolf,” he says. When his words are met with just a questioning quirk of her brow he sighs and gestures more intently to the cot. He puts his hands under his head and closes his eyes, and then points at her, then at the cot.

“You don’t have to give up your bed for me,” she says, and shakes her head.

He almost rolls his eyes and repeats his gestures. He’s insisting that she take his cot.

She groans and finally nods, not wanting to silently argue with him about where to sleep. He returns the nod and walks to his desk, picking up reports and going through them.

She sighs and sits on the side of the cot, unzipping her boots and pulling them off before she unzips her coat. A shadow looms over her and she looks up to see him staring down at her with a confused look on his face. When he doesn’t say anything or gesture at all, she slides out of her coat and sets it aside.

He picks it up carefully, and she watches as he fingers the zipper and inspects it closely.

That’s right, he would have no idea what a zipper was. She fights the laughter that wants to escape her lips, suddenly remembering the movie she used to watch with her mother, _George of the Jungle_.

Only instead of a loincloth, her confused man from a different world is wearing armor and a crooked grin.


	4. Tears

The reports aren’t enough of a distraction for him, and he finds his eyes keep wandering over to the cot. His mind is fuzzy, moving much slower than normal considering everything he’s done the past few days. He’s trying not to think about how much he had been looking forward to climbing into his cot and finally sleeping.

Or at least trying to sleep, since he’s been restless and disturbed lately every time he does try to seek his rest.

He has no idea what to make of the woman in his tent. She’s laying with her back to him, her long dark hair spread behind her on the pillow. Her clothes are unlike any he has seen, her pants made of an odd tight material almost like strong cotton, and her shirt patterned like plaidweave, only black and white, and a thicker material. The fastenings on her cloak are strange to him, even after she had shown him how they worked. All he can think is that he would get stuck if those fastenings were on his cloak.

He had been surprised when she removed her puffy cloak to find that she was slender, but everything about her was soft like she didn’t ever have to do any physical labor or activity. He had vaguely wondered if she came from a noble family when he saw her, and if they would come looking for her.

He almost hopes they will.

He’s lost count of how many times he’s glanced her way as he tries to focus on the reports, but after an hour passes he suddenly notices her shoulders shaking. A soft sob escapes her, and she snuggles further into the pillow and blankets as if she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s crying from him.

“Are – are you all right?” he asks instinctively, and then clenches his fist in frustration. He wishes she could understand him, so they could just clear everything up instead of not knowing anything about each other. “Celia?”

She jumps at the sound of his voice, and he wonders at how skittish she is every time he says her name. She peers over her shoulder and he sees black marks running down her cheeks from her eyes. At first he’s alarmed, until he realizes she had looked like she was wearing kohl and some other sort of makeup. He sets the reports down and stares at her, at a loss for how to comfort her if he can’t communicate with her.

She wipes at her tears and shakes her head. “M’i yrros, ll’i eb teiuq. M’i tsuj gnizilaer i t’nac og emoh.” She cries a little harder when she’s done speaking, and she faces away from him again as she sobs.

Cullen heaves a sigh and rubs the back of his neck, feeling even more frustrated. He’s faced with a crying woman and no idea what he can say or do.

He almost wishes he was facing down a rift spilling demons again instead of this.

Standing up from his desk, he slowly walks over to the cot and sits on the edge of it. He hesitates a moment before he reaches over and gently pats her on the shoulder, but she gives a startled yelp and sits up, scooting away from him on the cot.

He holds his hands up, stilling himself so that she doesn’t get scared by any sudden movements. “I’m sorry, I just – you’re crying, and I -” he chuckles softly. “Frankly I have no idea what to do about a crying woman normally, much less one who can’t understand me.”

Cecilia stares at him for a moment, and then brushes at the tears sliding down her cheeks. “M’i yrros, i tsuj reven thguoht d’i eb ereh, htiw uoy fo lla elpeop…”

An awkward silence falls as they sit facing each other on the cot, trying to avoid each other’s gaze for a moment. Cullen sighs and looks back at her, and something sparkles on her hand when it catches the light. He frowns as he watches her spin it, noticing the way she’s absently fidgeting with it.

It’s on the wrong finger, but with that many jewels, that intricate of a design – it almost looks like a wedding ring, and an incredibly expensive one at that.

He raises his eyebrows and points a finger at it. “Are you married?”

She frowns and her full lips part slightly as she stares at him. She didn’t understand the question, and he’s trying to think how he can mime it to ask her. He points again at the ring, and then at her, and then stops, trying to decide what he can gesture for ‘husband.’

If she has a husband, maybe he’ll be looking for her, maybe they can get her back to him.

Or maybe she ran off from him. Marriages, especially with nobles, tend to be arranged. There’s a chance she ran off from a bad deal or a horrible match. Cullen sighs when he thinks about how much that could complicate things.

He shakes his head and begins his gestures again, pointing more fervently at her ring. She stares down at it and quickly removes her other fingers so that she’s no longer playing with it. She looks annoyed to see it on her hand, pursing her lips before she suddenly takes it off.

“I sseug i t’nod deen ot raew siht eromyna,” she sighs. She twirls the ring in her fingers for a few moments and then looks up to see him staring at it. Biting her bottom lip she looks between him and the ring for a few moments before she shrugs. She points at the ring, and then out the tent flaps, and then rubs her fingers together. When he merely frowns she tries again.

“Coin? Oh – you want to sell that?” he stares at her, bewildered. “Why would you sell that? Aren’t you – your husband will want -”

But she’s laughing, and suddenly crying again as she stares at the ring. She holds it out to him, and when he seems hesitant to take it she gestures more insistently. He takes it from her, slowly, and then holds it between his fingers so he can look at it. There’s an inscription on the inside of the band, but he can’t understand any of the words.

“I – what do you want me to -” he raises his gaze to hers and sees that she’s wiping her tears again. It breaks his heart, watching her look so sad but unable to ask her what’s wrong.

“I t’nod deen ti won,” she sighs. “I t’nod erac tahw uoy od htiw ti. Taht rekcuf t’nseod evresed rof em ot peek gniraew taht ekil eh snwo em.”

Tears keep streaming down her cheeks, and she wipes at them, smearing black on her cheeks and her fingers as she does. She looks back up at Cullen, and suddenly leans forward and brushes her knuckles against his cheek. “Knaht uoy, Cullen.”

She pulls away as quickly as she sat forward, and rolls back over in the cot to snuggle into the blankets. He sits for a moment longer, staring at her as she resumes her quiet crying. Before he can stop himself he straightens the blankets and pats her on the shoulder, then quickly withdraws his hand and stands. He looks down at the glittering ring in his hand, thoroughly unsure of what to do with it. After a moment’s consideration he moves to her cloak and slips it into one of the pockets he had noticed.

She’ll need it for whenever her husband comes looking for her, since he’s certain to. Whatever she’s upset about right now shouldn’t get in the way of that reunion, and she’ll need the ring then.

He sighs and returns to his desk, trying his best to focus on the reports. His mind is still hazy, even more so now that it’s churning over her reaction to her ring. She’s married, but clearly not happy about it.

Strangely, he’s a little disappointed that she’s married.

He frowns sharply and glances at the cot, wondering why he cares.

 After another hour of trying and failing to focus on the reports from the Breach, he heaves a sigh and rubs his temples. When was the last time he slept? He can’t even remember, and he’s realizing he won’t be any use tomorrow to help with training if he’s exhausted. He glances at the cot, wishing he could enjoy its comfort.

There’s plenty of room, she’s so tiny he could easily slip into it behind her, and they’d be warmer, if she was in his arms…

He shakes his head, scowling at himself. He can’t remember the last time he was alone like this with a woman and he can’t seem to get his mind under control. It keeps wandering, repeating his first observations about her lips, picturing the way she had run her tongue over them earlier. And her eyes, there’s something so beautiful about them, even if there’s a deep sadness behind their honeyed brown depths.

He stands and stretches, chiding himself for his thoughts as he begins to strip out of his armor. He resigns himself to sleeping on the floor like he said he would, even though his eyes keep wandering longingly to the cot. Once he’s out of his armor he moves to his trunk and pulls out a spare blanket, and he shakes it out before he takes his place on the floor near the brazier.

He’s not cold, instead he feels almost too hot. He glances at the cot and wonders if she’s asleep, or if she’ll notice if he slips out of his shirt. She seems to be breathing deeply, her shoulders no longer shaking with sobs. It had been interesting to see her crying, after how she had been so stoic in the face of their questioning.

It was like she hadn’t wanted anyone to notice or see her crying, and she had thought she could get away with it in the cot. She was strangely beautiful when she cried, and the sight had tugged at his heartstrings.

He contemplates for another moment before he decides that she must be asleep by now, and he sits up and removes his shirt, bunching it up to use as a pillow. Sleep is hard to find for him, even as exhausted as he is. He hates this, the withdrawal and the nightmares that come with it. Hoping that he doesn’t wake her up with a night terror, he rolls to face the cot and stares at the small huddled form under the blankets.

He drifts off to sleep, the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is her dark hair spread across his pillow, shining slightly reddish gold in the firelight.


	5. Simple Phrases

It feels like jet lag.

She sighs and looks around, trying to be as quiet as she can as she lets her eyes adjust to the darkness of her surroundings. It takes her a moment, and at first she’s panicked when she doesn’t recognize anything.

And then the realization comes crashing in.

She’s in Thedas.

When she had finally drifted off, she again thought she would wake up and find out it was a dream, or that she had been in a coma.

But there she is, lying under blankets and furs in a cot, in the Commander’s tent.

She glances down at the ground and sees Cullen sleeping there, his arms and legs splayed, the blankets tangled around his hips.

He’s not wearing a shirt, and her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of him. It was one thing to see him on a screen, it was another to see him standing in armor in front of her.

Yet seeing him like this, shirtless and vulnerable in sleep – her heart races and she feels as nervous and giddy as a schoolgirl with a crush. He’s muscular, and scarred – more scars on his arms and chest than she thought he would have. The reality of Thedas must be worse than the portrayed fiction of it she had explored back on Earth. There, he had seemed like a pretty boy with just a rakish lip scar. Here, he’s definitely a true warrior, his body honed by training and bearing the marks of previous battles and everything he’s been through.

He’s frowning in his sleep, occasionally twitching. But he seems like he was too exhausted to be having a nightmare like she almost expected him to. If this is the early days, at Haven, he must still be going through some of the worst of the withdrawals.

She rolls over and stares at him, turning everything over in her mind. If she’s in Thedas and the Breach is in the sky, that means there’s a Herald somewhere. She wonders which one it is, who it could be. Her heart aches when a sudden thought crosses her mind – she hopes it isn’t Evelyn, because that will mean her place here in the Commander’s tent will eventually be usurped.

She frowns, curious why she cares. She’s not even thinking about trying to get home, instead trying to think of how she can survive Thedas. If she’s honest with herself, she’s basically resigned herself to it and accepted that there’s probably no way for her to ever get home. She has no idea how she got here, which means she has no way to get back. It will be easier for her if she just accepts it and tries to figure out her new life, instead of striving for her old one.

Besides, maybe she is just in a coma. May as well make the most of it, and enjoy the sudden appearance of her biggest fictional crush as a real person.

He snores slightly in his sleep, and she presses her fingers to her lips to stifle her giggles. Even snoring, he’s the most beautiful man she’s ever seen in person.

The thought makes her feel a pang of guilt when she thinks about her fiancé, but then she remembers the night she was transported off of Earth. Her guilt disappears, replaced by bitterness and regret.

She feels heartbroken, but mostly because she feels so stupid. As she fell asleep the night before, her mind had turned over the last seven years and she had realized there were plenty of signs she had ignored. This picture couldn’t have been the first time. It was just the time that he slipped up, and she caught him.

She sits up in the cot and when it creaks she stops moving, looking at Cullen to see if he noticed. When he merely gives another soft snore she continues pushing herself up and stretches. She’s still in her bra and her jeans, and wishes she could have taken them off. She normally sleeps naked, but she wasn’t going to attempt that with him in the tent. With as awkward as he was simply seeing her cry, she’s not sure how he would have handled her stripping off all of her clothes.

She’s embarrassed when she thinks about him catching her crying, though she’s not entirely certain why. He had been sweet and had tried to see what was wrong. She could tell he was at a loss trying to help her, but it had been endearing and had helped make her feel better.

 

_Cullen Rutherford tried to comfort me while I was crying._

 

She giggles softly to herself and shakes her head. If this is a coma, at least her mind is being kind to her instead of torturing her with strange, vivid nightmares like she’s heard can happen.

Tearing her gaze from where he’s sleeping on the ground, she reaches for her coat and pulls her phone out of her pocket. It’s a habit from Earth, wanting to check her phone as soon as she’s awake. But she wants to look through her photos, feeling melancholy as she thinks of the friends who don’t know where she is.

The friends she may never see again.

Tears spring into her eyes once more and she shakes her head, throwing her phone aside instead of turning it on. There’s no point torturing herself like this.

She bites her bottom lip and glances back at where Cullen is sprawled, wondering if she can slip out of the tent without him noticing. Pushing back the blankets, she slowly creeps out of the cot, trying to keep it from creaking as it shifts with her weight. It had been surprisingly comfortable, and she wishes she could sleep longer. Her mind is awake, though, alert and unwilling to let her rest any more.

Shrugging into her coat, she zips it and pulls her boots on before she slowly creeps to the tent flaps. She doesn’t even know what she wants to do, she just doesn’t want to lie in the cot and wait for him to wake up. She feels restless, and in need of some cool air to help clear her mind.

She stops outside of the tent flaps and looks around. Haven is more populated than she thought, rows and rows of tents shoved into every corner and free space available. There’s no one else around, except for guards in the distance keeping watch. She decides not to push her luck and doesn’t wander, instead taking her place on a nearby stool and pulling her pack of cigarettes and lighter from her pocket.

Lighting one, she takes a deep drag and then stares at the lighter in her hand. Cassandra and Cullen’s fascination with it had amused her, and she thought about all of the movies she had seen where cultures and worlds collide. She feels like an alien, and vaguely she realizes she is, in a way.

She looks around the village as she enjoys her cigarette, feeling her nerves calm slightly and her hands stop shaking. It’s one of her worst habits, but considering she’s without anything else to help her anxiety, she finds herself glad she had her cigarettes in her coat pocket so that they made the journey with her.

As she smokes she gingerly feels her forehead, and pain shoots through her skull as her fingers brush the bump from where she hit it. She grimaces and lowers her hand, wondering if she’ll be allergic to elfroot or if it will help her. And then she remembers she doesn’t know how to ask for any, and she sighs and chews a thumb as she contemplates how to mime asking for a potion.

A loud, strangled shout sounds behind her and she turns to look at the tent just as Cullen comes rushing out of it, pulling his shirt on. He looks around wildly and then sees her sitting there, and relief comes across his face before it’s replaced with a glower.

“I thguoht d’uoy nur ffo,” he grumbles. It’s obvious he’s still groggy, as if he’d noticed she was gone and ran out without fully waking up.

“Sorry, I just -” she cuts off and shrugs, wondering why she even bothers trying to speak with him. She holds up her cigarette, but it only seems to confuse him further. “Do you guys not have anything you smoke, here? That’s odd, with all those herbs around.”

He doesn’t reply and instead walks over to stand beside her, still scowling down at her. “T’nera uoy dloc?”

She stares at him, not knowing how to respond since she doesn’t know what he asked.

He shakes his head and gives an exasperated chuckle. He thinks for a moment, his hands on his hips, and then he gestures at her and wraps his arms around himself, rubbing his arms as if trying to warm himself.

“Oh, am I cold?” she giggles and shakes her head. “No, where I’m from it’s usually this cold. I’m fine.”

He frowns and she sighs before she shakes her head and pulls gently at her coat. He nods after a moment and looks away, but he doesn’t move. She begins to realize he must intend to stand there until she’s ready to go back into the tent.

“So – I’m being babysat by the great Commander Cullen Rutherford?” she teases, and he raises his eyebrow when he recognizes his name in what she said. She sighs and shakes her head, burying her face in one hand.

 

_How the fuck did she end up here?_

 

It’s surreal, more surreal than anything she’s ever experienced. She’s been amazed at how she’s handled it, besides crying last night, but she’s fairly certain it’s just because she has absolutely no idea what to make of any of it. She’s scared, to be honest, but she’s also in complete denial of where she is. Every time she looks up and sees him, her heart and stomach do somersaults and her mind goes blank.

She takes the last drag of her cigarette, hoping that it calms the nerves that are interrupting her thoughts every time she reminds herself who is next to her.

Finally standing she turns to face him, and notices suddenly that she has to crane her neck to look up at him. She’s only slightly below average height back on Earth, but he’s tall and broad and makes her feel like a midget compared to him. It’s not even that he’s that tall – if she had to guess he’s only a few inches over six feet. But something about his presence is intimidating and awe-inspiring, yet it makes her feel safe.

He’s frowning, and she realizes he’s probably wondering why she’s staring at him. She clears her throat and turns to head back into the tent. Footsteps follow her through the snow, and he enters the tent behind her. She sighs and unzips her coat, setting it aside and looking around, her mind racing. What is she going to do all day? Is he going to drag her around after him, making her stand with him while he oversees training? Or will she be shut up in the tent alone?

The thought isn’t horrible until she realizes she won’t have anything to do, since she won’t even be able to read anything. As much as she doesn’t want to just stand beside him as he trains, she’d prefer that to sitting inside all day as if she’s in solitary confinement.

He’s putting his armor on, and she watches him for a moment, admiring how his fingers look fastening all of the buckles. Part of the cloth of his mantle catches on his armor, and she walks over to help him fix it.

He stares at her suspiciously until he realizes what she’s doing, and he frowns as he watches her. “Knaht uoy,” he says.

She furrows her brows and stares up at him, realizing she’s fairly certain what he just tried to say to her. “Could you repeat that?” When her words are just met with a deeper frown she sighs and gestures at his mouth. She flaps her fingers, mimicking talking, and then she rolls her hand to encourage him to repeat it. “Again?”

He hesitates and then says it once more. She focuses on the way the words sound, the accents he places on them. She gestures for him to do it one more time, and he raises an eyebrow and does, watching her intently as she observes his mouth forming the words.

“Thank you?” she mimics, and his eyes widen as he stares at her.

He nods. “Uoy dootsrednu taht?”

She sighs and shrugs. It’s a start at least. “Cullen, thank you,” she says, and she gestures at the cot and then at him. She wants to say thank you for everything, for not turning her out into the snowy Frostbacks, for not killing her, for not keeping her in that cell.

But for now she’ll settle for thanking him for letting her sleep in his cot. She remembers something else, and she mimics tears streaming down her face and then points at him, smiling. “Thank you, for that, too.”

He’s still staring at her as if shocked, and then he nods. “Er’uoy emoclew.”

She moves her lips, thinking she understood that as well. It’s an easier phrase, and she gestures for him to repeat it. After a moment she tries, “You’re welcome?”

He nods eagerly. “You nrael ylkciuq.”

She giggles and shakes her head. At least she knows two phrases now, and she’s glad that they’re some of the most common and useful. Plus, from those two – she knows the word for “you” now, which is a start.

Maybe if she follows him around all day, she can learn a bit more. The thought is suddenly exciting to her, and she determines to shadow him and put her mind to work. She wants to be able to talk with him, to tell him she’s nothing to worry about, that he doesn’t need to fear her. She wants to thank him for looking after her, and explain her situation to him.

Although she looks up at him, taking in the strange way he’s smiling at her, and she wonders if she’ll ever be able to explain where she’s from or how she got there.


	6. Practice

Cullen sighs and walks briskly out of the tent, his hand on the pommel of his sword. He hears footsteps behind him and turns, and is surprised to see Cecilia following quickly as she pulls on her strange cloak and fastens it.

“Celia, you – you should stay here,” he says. He tries gesturing to the tent, and raises an eyebrow when she folds her arms and shakes her head. “You can’t come with me.”

She frowns at him and shakes her head more emphatically, pointing at herself and then at him. She gestures for him to keep walking, to lead the way.

“I – I’ll be overseeing training, you shouldn’t come with me,” he sighs, exasperated. “Stay here.” He points firmly at the ground, trying to emphasize his point.

Again she simply shakes her head, and he can tell she sets her jaw in her determination. “On m’i gnimoc htiw you,” she says. He only understands the last word, because she finally knows it and says it in Common.

He’s amazed at how quickly she picked up the two phrases, and now she’s been saying ‘thank you’ as much as she can. When he brought her food, she said it several times as she ate. When he led her to the ditch so they could both relieve themselves, she said it. It’s like she’s practicing but also trying to convey her extreme gratitude by saying it for every little thing. She keeps looking at him like she wants to say more, and even though he wants to try to teach her, right now he needs to get to his duties.

“M’i gnimoc htiw you,” she repeats, her voice firm.

He heaves a sigh and rubs the back of his neck for a moment, mentally warring with himself. “Fine,” he grits out at last, irritated by how stubborn she is. “But don’t get in my way.”

She peers up at him, her brown eyes moving over his face. She seems to have understood from the tone of his voice what he’s implying, and she nods and says, “Thank you.”

Despite himself, he smiles.

He shakes his head and turns away, making his way through Haven again with her at his heels. The village is bustling, but there’s nervous energy as everyone runs around trying to set things right. There are still wounded filling the tents and cots beside fires, bedrolls laying wherever there is space for the Inquisition’s few healers to do their work. Cullen swallows hard as he takes in the destruction and despair, and determines to focus harder on training. They need to be better prepared for whatever comes their way, considering what happened.

He hears a sharp intake of breath and turns to see Cecilia staring at the rows of the dead nearby, her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide. She tears her gaze away after a moment and looks up at him, tears swimming in her eyes.

“I sseug I reven tghuoht tuoba woh ynam deid,” she whispers. “Siht si elbirroh.”

He stares at her for a moment, surprised at how shaken up she looks at the sight of the dead. It’s as if she’s never seen a dead body before, which is surprising to him. But she also seems shaken as if she understands what happened here.

“Did you – were you here before the Breach? Do you -” he stops as he realizes there’s no way to mime this, no way to try to ask her if she knew anyone, if maybe she was caught up in the destruction. Instead he simply reaches out and awkwardly pats her on the shoulder. “Yes, it’s horrible, but – um, I need to get to my duties.”

He feels heartless, but he doesn’t know what he’ll do if she starts crying again. After an awkward moment passes in silence he turns away from her and continues to make his way to the training grounds beyond the gates.

She follows closely behind him, but her footsteps are slower now, her arms hugging her chest as she stares at the ground. Any eagerness she had originally shown to follow him seems to have been extinguished, and he feels almost saddened by its loss.

The recruits are all there, getting their swords and shields ready and pairing up. He walks through their lines and corrects some grips, and then begins to shout orders at them as the sparring commences. He paces and watches intently, yelling corrections when he needs to. Cecilia stands nearby, her gaze following his every movement.

It isn’t unsettling, but it distracts him, until finally he turns to glare at her. “Can I help you?” he snaps, temporarily forgetting she can’t understand him.

“You -” she makes a small humming noise as she thinks. “Sw-sword?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Yes, sword,” he nods, letting her know she got it correct.

She smiles and repeats the word, then looks over the recruits.

Understanding dawns on him – she’s trying to learn more Common. He sighs and resigns himself to her watching him while he goes about his work, even if it’s distracting to him. When he reaches a lull in his commands, he stops his pacing and stands beside her. He gestures at one of the recruits’ hands, and says “Shield.”

She looks up at him, frowning slightly. He gestures again and says the word, and she watches his lips as he says it. “Shield?” she repeats.

He nods eagerly, but then frowns. Those aren’t incredibly useful words for her to know, at least not so that they can have a conversation about where she came from or who she is. He’s still marveling at how quickly she’s picking up words, though, and tries to think of more that he can easily teach her.

As he tries to consider how to teach her the word ‘where’ so that he can ask where she’s from, he notices she’s rubbing her forehead, a sharp frown on her face.

“Are you in pain?” he asks, and when she looks up he gestures at her forehead.

“Ti struh,” she sighs. She purses her lips and then points at her head and then mimes drinking something. When he doesn’t respond right away she repeats the action.

“Oh, a – a potion? Do you need elfroot?” He suddenly feels sheepish, thinking that he should have tried to ask her sooner if she was in pain or needed something for it. “Um, yes – let’s go get you something.”

He looks around and sees Rylen giving orders to a scout nearby. “Rylen,” he calls, and waits for the man to approach them. “Can you take over for a moment? I need to see Adan.”

Rylen takes in the appearance of the woman beside him and nods. “Of course, Commander.”

Cullen nods and gestures for Cecilia to follow him, leading her back through the gates toward the healers’ hut. Sudden shouts and commotion sound from their left, and he looks up to see a crowd gathering outside a nearby hut.

It only takes him a moment to realize it’s the hut the Herald is resting in. He looks down at his charge and orders her to stay before he rushes off in the direction of the crowd.

They’re jostling with one another, some trying to get closer to the door to the hut, some trying to hold them off. There are Templars in the mix, recruits, and also villagers, on both sides of the scuffle. They’re shouting at one another, and punches are starting to fly.

“Stop, stop!” he cries, and throws himself into the mix to try to break up the crowd. “This isn’t helping anyone -”

“Knight-Commander, that man is responsible for -”

“That is _not_ my title,” he snaps, instantly irritated. “And that man in there saved us all. Stop this foolishness, now!”

A fist flies from his left and catches him on the chin, temporarily dazing him. He thinks he hears a voice shouting something incomprehensible, and after shaking his head to clear it he looks up to see Cecilia standing in front of him. She has a hold on someone’s arm and is shouting at them in her strange language. He doesn’t understand the words, but he certainly understands the tone and intention – she’s likely swearing at them and chastising them for hitting him.

The man tries to push her aside, and she lets fly a slap so powerful Cullen winces as he watches it make contact with the man’s cheek. She grimaces and shakes her hand out, obviously pained from how hard she struck the man. “Woh erad you,” she grits out. “S’eh eht Rednammoc, woh erad you tih mih!”

The man she hit is staring at her, positively bewildered by the strange language she’s shouting at him so fiercely. He’s starting to look angrier though, and Cullen reaches out and grabs her elbow, pulling her away from her adversary before he can retaliate.

“Stop that, Celia, you’ll get yourself killed,” he growls. He raises his eyes to everyone else, maintaining a tight grip on her arm to keep her from getting into trouble. “Everyone clear out, now – or I’ll call in reinforcements to _make_ you leave. And if I see any of you near this hut again – you’ll have to answer to the Inquisition. Now go!”

There are grumbles and hesitation, but the Templars and recruits who were trying to block the door start shooing everyone away and they finally all turn to leave. He glowers down at Cecilia as he flexes his chin, realizing he’s going to bruise from the blow he took. She’s staring up at him, her brows furrowed and her eyes wandering over his face.

“Era you lla thgir?” she asks, and she reaches up with a hand to brush her fingers along his chin. Her fingers are soft but cold, and he feels a shiver pass through him at the contact. “You deen emos toorfle, oot,” she giggles.

He shakes his head at her, thoroughly confused by her actions. “I told you to stay out of it,” he grumbles, finally releasing her arm. The door to their left opens and Adan peeks his head out of the door.

“Are they gone?” he asks Cullen. After seeing Cullen’s nod he heaves a sigh and opens the door further. “He’s still sleeping, but Maker – I thought they were going to break the door down.”

Cullen looks past the man into the room, seeing the tall Herald still asleep on the bed, his glowing palm lying on top of the blankets. There’s movement beside him and he sees Cecilia taking a few steps to peer into the room, and when she turns away from the doorway he notices a smile on her face. She quickly clears her throat and the smile disappears, but if he wasn’t mistaken it almost looked like she was relieved for a moment.

He frowns and stares down at her, but she avoids his gaze and simply flexes her hand, still shaking it out as if it pains her. He clenches his jaw, wanting to chastise her again but knowing it will be useless. “Adan, do you have some elfroot? I’m afraid we’re both in need of some.”

“Of course, Commander, follow me,” the alchemist says, and gestures for them to follow him back to his hut after he closes the door to the Herald’s.

They make their way through the village, and Cullen notices a simmering tension in the air as they pass. He sighs, worrying what this will mean in future days. He needs to station some guards at the Herald’s door, it would seem, and he resolves to do it after he gets Cecilia some elfroot.

Once inside the healer’s hut, Adan rummages through his collection of vials and pulls out two. “I have elfroot, but,” he looks over Cecilia’s head. “I think you should let me try to heal you, as well, you may have suffered damage that elfroot can’t heal.”

She stares up at Adan and then looks at Cullen, frowning.

“She doesn’t speak Common,” Cullen tells Adan. “Here, let me, uh – let me try.”

He turns to face her and gestures at her head, and then at Adan, and then wiggles his fingers as if casting a spell. She raises her eyebrows and begins to laugh, still staring at him as if bewildered by his gestures.

“Oh for the love of Andraste,” Adan groans as Cullen tries to repeat the action. Adan  holds his hand up and summons his healing magic, and the green glow makes Cecilia’s eyes widen. Understanding dawns on her face and she looks at the healer and nods her head eagerly.

“There, was that so hard?” Adan asks Cullen as he presses his healing hand to her head.

She closes her eyes and for a moment her face looks relaxed, her lips pouting slightly as if she’s enjoying herself immensely at the feeling of the healing magic. Cullen clears his throat and looks away, somehow finding himself bothered by the face she made. It was pure contentment, and again he’s distracted by the sight of her tempting lips.

After a few moments trying to rein in his wandering mind, he finally looks back to see her smiling at him, her forehead no longer bruised or cut open. He raises his eyebrows as he takes in the wide grin on her face. “Better?” he asks.

She furrows her brows a bit but seems to understand what he’s trying to ask her. “Thank you,” she says to Adan. “Taht tlef lufrednow.”

Adan chuckles. “I thought you said she didn’t know any Common,” he says to Cullen.

“Just a few phrases, so far,” he explains. “She’s learning quickly, I’m surprised.”

“Some people just have a knack for languages,” Adan muses as he gives them both elfroot potions. “Drink up.”

Cullen watches as Cecilia uncorks her vial and sniffs it, and she wrinkles her nose before she takes a deep breath and downs the potion in one gulp. He tries not to laugh when he sees the look on her face after she swallows, and she presses a hand to her mouth as if she’s trying not to be sick. He shakes his head, thoroughly amused, before he takes his own potion. Immediately, the dull thud in his chin begins to fade.

“Thank you, Adan,” he nods, and gestures for Cecilia to follow him.

“Thank you,” she says again to the alchemist, smiling as she precedes Cullen out of the tent.

The rest of the day she follows him, still listening intently and trying to teach herself more words in Common. When evening falls, she’s managed to learn to say, ‘Greetings, Commander,’ after watching him be greeted again and again by scouts and others from the Inquisition. She practices saying it to him and giggles softly after every time she does.

“Do you have to keep repeating that?” he groans, rubbing his forehead as his usual headache throbs and worsens. He’s pouring over the reports on his desk while she sits on his cot watching him. He glowers at her and sees her look away from him timidly as if hurt. He sighs and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

She perks up and stares at him for a moment. “Niaga?” She makes the same gesture she has before, asking him to repeat what he said.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and having to repeat it makes him feel more ashamed for how he just snapped at her.

“I-I’m sorry?” she repeats.

He nods. “Yes, that’s it. I’m sorry.”

She smiles. “I’m sorry, oot,” she says. “Ll’i evael you enola.”

He frowns a little at her jumble of Common and her own language, but she doesn’t elaborate with any mimes and instead shrugs into her coat. She pulls the strange box of herbal sticks and the fire contraption out of her pocket and gestures to the flaps of the tent. He frowns and nods, and she excuses herself to go sit on the stool outside the tent. After a few moments he smells the smoke made by the herbs, and he finds himself curious. They don’t smell like anything people burn or smoke in Thedas, and he wonders where she got them or what effect they have on her, considering that they don’t seem to affect her mind at all.

He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind so he can focus.

Too much of his day has already been taken up wondering about her, and he needs to try to refocus himself. Although if he’s honest with himself – he's been enjoying thinking about her more than he should.


	7. Seeking Relief

She had begun to wonder how long it was going to take him to think to show this to her.

The last two days she had tried to think of how to mime and ask him, but she also found herself worried that if she asked it would mean he stuck around to keep an eye on her. He still seems loathe to let her out of his sight, and she’s beginning to chafe at how close she has to stay to him all the time.

Although, it’s not because it irritates her. It’s because she wants to be able to talk to him, and because he keeps smiling at her and it’s _doing_ things to her. She still can’t sleep that much, and she spends most of her time watching him work at his desk until the late hours of the night or sleep on the pile of blankets and furs he’s still using as a bed.

Now though, he’s handing her a rough bar of soap and a large piece of cloth that's like a towel, clearing his throat as he gestures at the door of the baths. “Ll’i eb kcab ta the tent,” he says. She catches the last word because she got him to teach it to her and she nods.

“Thank you,” she says, and he gives her a quick grin before he walks off, rubbing the back of his neck as he goes.

There it is, that crooked grin again, and she feels her stomach flutter in response.

She groans and throws her head back on her shoulders for a moment, feeling thoroughly frustrated. She’s still here, in Thedas. She hasn’t woken up, and every day she’s beginning to comprehend more and more that this is her new reality. Some of the shock is wearing off and she’s fully grasping her surroundings, the dangerous landscape she’s in.

Her hand still aches from the slap she gave a man the other day, and she’s still shocked at her own daring. It’s like she wasn’t concerned about what harm could come to her, since _he_ was there – but also because she seemed to think she was invincible, like she wasn’t really here. Now, though, she’s starting to grasp that she is, that this isn't a dream, and she needs to be more careful in the future.

With a sigh she strips out of her clothes and enters the bath, sinking into the steaming water with a grateful sigh. After several days of not bathing, the hot water feels like silk against her skin and she purrs as she leans her head back against the bath's edge. Even though she’s used to the cold, Haven’s relentlessly freezing temperatures were beginning to wear on her, and the hot bath feels delicious as it chases the chill out of her bones. Her feet have been aching from how much of the day she was spending on her feet. She wasn’t used to it, considering her job on Earth had meant sitting most days.

Stretching her legs and flexing her feet, she simply relaxes in the bath for a while, shutting her eyes and letting her mind wander.

And the only place her mind seems to want to wander is to _him_.

She’s been a tangle of emotions since she arrived, still torn between heartache and absolute shock and sadness at finding herself no longer on Earth. She’s still avoiding thinking about her friends and how much everyone must miss her, as well as how much she misses them. Thinking about the worry and despondence they must all feel to think something horrible has happened to her is enough to make her want to cry. She tries not to think about what happened before she left, trying to convince herself there’s no point worrying about it now.

It’s over, and since she likely won’t ever go back, it’s not worth upsetting herself with the memories. Besides, it’s clear to her now that her fiancé never deserved her. She wishes that instead of Thedas she had been able to travel back to her twenty year old self to stop her from accepting the first date he asked her on.

Then again, she’s not sure she would have done that.

If she has to be honest with herself, she’s almost happy to be where she is.

Earth had begun to wear on her, monotonous and boring, with little to look forward to except a mortgage and a disappointing marriage that would have ended in divorce.

Instead she's here, spending all of her days with a man who has so far been sweet and chivalrous to her.

She thinks again about his grin, about the warmth in his amber eyes when he looks at her. She remembers the few times they had sat in the evenings and he had tried to teach her words in Common. And the evening before when he had caught her putting on her lip balm and had been thoroughly fascinated by it, trying to get her to explain it somehow and seeming fixated on her lips while she showed him what it was for.

She bites her lip and feels a delicious throb between her legs. Picturing the scar at the corner of his mouth, she finds herself wondering what it would be like to kiss him. She’s certain he wouldn’t feel the same, but a girl can dream, can’t she?

With a quick, instinctive glance around the deserted bathhouse, she listens intently but doesn’t hear anyone nearby. She can’t resist; it’s her only time away from him and she can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss him, to be held in his strong arms.

Cecilia slides a hand into the water and spreads her legs slightly, slipping her finger between her folds and slowly stroking her small pearl. She reaches down and feels how wet and excited she already is from her musings on his lips, her slick nectar mixing with the hot water of the bath. Biting her lip to stifle a moan she resumes stroking herself, squeezing her eyes shut and picturing him shirtless, grinning at her.

She wonders what it would be like to lay beneath him, to see him fully naked. Considering the amount of time they’ve spent together, they haven’t stripped out of their clothes any more than they did that first night, and she’s tormenting herself with her curiosity at what the rest of him looks like. She knows what she hopes he looks like, and she moans as she thinks about taking him in her hand, or in her mouth. Hell for him, she’d spend all night on her knees listening to him enjoy himself as she did whatever he asked of her.

Fantasizing about him when she thought he was a fiction was fun enough when she was bored or alone. But now that she’s been near enough to smell him and speak with him, now that she’s been sleeping in his cot only a few feet from him she feels almost overwhelmed with desire.

She rolls her hips against her hand, increasing the speed and pressure of her finger until she has to stifle another moan. Her legs tremble and she gasps slightly as she feels herself pushing closer to the edge. Picturing different scenarios that mostly involve him tearing her clothes off and having his way with her, she begins to fall apart, a deep moan escaping from her throat as she arches in the tub. “Fuck  - _oh_ fuck me, Cullen,” she whimpers, her whole body shuddering as her release makes her mind go blank except for her thoughts of him bending her over something.

Her body finally quiets and she takes a few deep breaths, trying to regain her senses. Several minutes pass before she finally sighs and sits up, realizing she needs to wash her hair and get back to the tent before he comes looking for her. She feels a bit better, having released some of the tension she’s been feeling, but she also flushes with embarrassment. She’s in a strange, dangerous land, and her biggest concern is how much she wants to let the man protecting her have his way with her.

She shakes her head in exasperation as she wrings out her hair and stands, reaching for the towel nearby to begin to dry herself off. Scrunching her nose in distaste she pulls her clothes back on, trying not to think about how many days straight she’s worn them. She decides to go commando, and uses the bathtub to wash her undergarments. Maybe she’ll try to figure out a way to ask Cullen how she can get some new clothes, since she’s getting sick of wearing the same ones every day. She still wishes that somehow she had managed to bring her tote bag with her to Thedas.

Bracing herself for how cold it will be to walk through Haven with wet hair, she sighs and leaves the bathhouse to make her way to his tent. She’s passing a cluster of tents when she slows her walk, noticing some recruits playing cards and laughing and joking with one another loudly. There are bottles scattered around them, and she notices a few full bottles of what appears to be liquor nearby, as if waiting for them to need more.

She bites her lip and looks around, but no one seems to notice her.

What she wouldn’t do for a drink, for a way to let her mind forget for a while what she’s been through and where she is. She hesitates, but still no one pays her any attention. It would be easy to grab one without anyone noticing.

She waits only a moment more before she decides, and she hurries forward and picks one up, smoothly tucking it into what she’s carrying as she passes on her way to his tent. There were so many bottles, they won’t miss one.

Cecilia picks up her pace and reaches his tent without incident, and he glances up when she opens the tent flaps.

“Greetings, Commander,” she says. It’s the only hello she knows, and he gives her a small smirk and shakes his head as he looks back to what he was reading. She moves around the tent, stripping off her coat and boots and hanging up her wet towel and underwear to dry before she places the soap bar out to dry as well.

She slides the bottle under the cot and nestles it where she hopes he won’t notice it before she takes her place on the cot and looks around. Contemplating cleaning or straightening things up to distract herself, she’s surprised when he stands and stretches.

He gives her an almost sheepish glance before he picks up the bar of soap and towel, and gestures out of the tent. She nods, understanding that he’s going to take his turn at the bathhouse now. She watches him go, happy that he doesn’t act like he can’t leave her alone so that he can bathe. She wonders a bit if he’s beginning to trust her.

As soon as she’s certain he’s gone, she pulls the bottle out from under the cot and pulls the cork out so she can take a deep swig. She splutters slightly, not expecting how strongly the liquid burns her throat as she swallows. Coughing lightly, she peers at the bottle, realizing it has to be some Thedas variant of whiskey. For some reason, she expected it to be wine or ale. She’s secretly grateful it’s something stronger, and she steadies herself and takes a bigger gulp. Blinking to clear her eyes from how they're watering, she takes another swig, and then another.

It’s been a while since she drank specifically to get drunk, but right now that’s all she wants. She just wants to forget everything. She doesn’t want to think of her ex-fiancé, she doesn’t want to think of her friends back home. She doesn’t want to think about being in a strange land she used to explore as a video game avatar named Evelyn, romancing the very man whose cot she’s currently in.

Her mind spins as she thinks about that, as she realizes that somehow that’s her reality now. She’s beginning to comprehend it and how strange it is that she’s here and likely won’t make it back home.

She wipes her tears and takes another deep gulp, this time savoring the burn of the whiskey as she feels a slight buzzing in her fingers, a tingling in her lips.

She just wants to forget, just for one night.


	8. Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Cecilia is singing is "Rivers and Roads" by The Head and The Heart

Cullen sighs, realizing he should probably head back. The hot water has been so soothing, almost helping his headache disappear entirely, his hands no longer shaking as much as they were. He regrets that he hasn’t let himself enjoy this the last few days, too intent on keeping an eye on his ward that he hasn’t wanted to step away for a leisurely bath.

But now he doesn’t want to get out, instead rolling his head on his shoulders to ease the tension in his neck. His mind wanders to Cecilia’s soft fingers and he wonders what they would feel like on his neck, working to relieve the tension…

He shakes his head and sits up, water sloshing with his movement as he chastises himself for how frequently his mind wanders like that. It has to be her proximity and his stress, the fact that he hasn’t had a woman for companionship in so long. He shouldn’t think about her like that, but his mind wanders constantly when he sees her. There’s something pretty about her, with her big golden brown eyes and full lips. And he’s noticed, while he thought she was soft, there’s an appealing quality in the curves of her body, especially considering how large her breasts are. They’re certainly more than a handful, and he feels himself start to harden as he thinks about taking them in his grasp to see, to feel just how soft they actually are –

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to banish the thoughts. She’s obviously a stranger in their lands, and she’s relying on him for protection. He feels despicable for wanting to press her for her attention, especially when he reminds himself that she’s married. But he can’t help but think about it every time he looks at her, thinking about what it would be like to kiss and caress her, or even just see her naked.

With a groan he pushes himself out of the bath, trying to distract himself before he decides to take matters into his own hands. He dries himself quickly and puts his shirt and breeches back on. After flinging the towel over his shoulder he slowly begins his walk through Haven to his tent. He’s scowling, still angry at himself over how undisciplined his mind has been lately in regards to her.

As he approaches his tent he slows, suddenly realizing he hears a soft voice singing in a strange language.

“ _Gnihton si sa ti sah neeb, dna I ssim ruoy ecaf ekil lleh, dna I sseug s’ti tsuj sa llew, tub I ssim ruoy ecaf ekil lleh_ ,” the voice sings, and he realizes it’s coming from his tent.

He opens the tent flaps a bit and peeks in to see Cecilia laying across the cot, her arms and legs splayed casually and one hand hanging over the edge holding a half empty bottle.

“ _Neeb gniklat tuob’ eht yaw sgniht egnahc_ ,” she sings, and her voice suddenly cracks with emotion as it increases in volume. She keeps singing the nonsense lyrics, and he stands watching her, enraptured by her sweet voice.

He may not understand the words, but he understands the emotion, the sadness in the way she’s singing. She sounds on the verge of tears. It takes him a moment watching her to realize that he’s fairly certain she’s drunk, and he frowns, wondering where she got the alcohol.

 Finally holding the tent flap open wide he pushes in, and when she sees him she giggles and says, “Greetings, Commander Cullen.” Her voice is strangely sing song, lower than normal as if she’s mocking with the words, trying to hide the emotion she was just displaying behind humor. “I hsiw uoy dluoc dnatsrednu em. Ebyam d’uoy neve ekil em neht, ebyam d’ew teg gnola.”

“Celia,” he says sternly. “Are you drunk?” When his pointless question is merely met with giggles he scowls and storms over to her, snatching the bottle from her hands. “Where did you get this?”

She shrugs innocently as he brandishes the bottle in front of her, as if she understands what he’s asking. “Dnuof ti.” She stares up at him, a thoughtful frown on her face. After several long moments of silence she pushes herself up and stares at him. “I wonk uoy. Er’uoy ton desoppus ot eb laer. Tey ereh uoy era, ni eht hself!”

He shakes his head as she dissolves into giggles again, and with a grimace he takes the bottle to his desk and hides it in a drawer.

Maker, it was annoying enough when he just couldn’t understand her but now – she seems inclined to keep talking. Her strange language and attitude is making his head ache worse than it did before his bath.

“Od uoy kniht m’i ytterp?” she asks, and then she laughs. “M’i dalg uoy t’ndid dnatsrednu taht.”

“Enough!” he snaps when she starts laughing again. “Maker’s breath, woman, I don’t even know how you got alcohol but I wish you hadn’t. Would you _please_ shut up?”

She pouts at his irritated tone, shrugging her shoulders, and the action pushes her breasts together. He feels his mouth go dry when he realizes she doesn’t have her shirt fastened as high as she normally does. He can see the creamy white valley between her breasts as well as the roundness of each on either side, and again he thinks about testing his theory that they’re more than a handful.

With a groan he arches his neck and faces away from her, silently praying to the Maker for patience. He’s considering fleeing the tent, unable to focus and get his mind under his control as he listens to the soft lilting laughter coming from the cot.

Several moments pass before he suddenly feels a hand on his waist, and he spins around to see her standing behind him. She’s frowning up at him, and then strains on tiptoe and wraps her arms around his neck. “Cullen,” she murmurs, trying to pull herself closer to him. “Emoc ereh -”

“Maker – Celia, stop,” he says, and he grips her shoulders and holds her away from him. She sulks, pursing her lips and staring up at him with her brows furrowed.

“Cullen – thank you,” she says, and then she frowns and shakes her head. She thinks hard for a moment and then points at him and then at herself. “Cullen – I tnaw ot thank you.”

Again she jumbles Common and her own language, but the way that she’s batting her eyelashes at him, he’s fairly certain he has an idea what she’s saying.

“That’s not necessary,” he says, although a voice in his head whispers _let her_. He pointedly ignores it. “You should go to sleep, you’re – you’re drunk. You’ll hate yourself in the morning.”

She keeps staring up at him, a bland smile on her face in response to his useless words. She wraps her arms around his waist and takes a step closer, and he hesitates, finding himself unable to push her away again. Instead of trying to pull him down like before, she simply steps into his arms and nestles her head against his chest.

He sighs and stands awkwardly for a moment, uncertain about what he should do. When he suddenly realizes she’s crying, he tilts his head heavenward in exasperation before he tentatively wraps his arms around her. She lets out a soft whimper when she feels his arms around her, and tightens her hold around his waist.

“I t’nod wonk tahw ot od,” she cries. “Woh did I teg ereh? I t’nac og emoh -”

The rest of her words disappear in her cries, even more incoherent than normal. He sighs and squeezes her, leaning down and pressing his face to her hair. She smells like his soap, her hair still damp from her bath. It’s somehow intoxicating to smell his scent on her, especially considering that he has her in his arms for the first time. He tries to fight the thoughts he’s been struggling with, determined to do nothing but provide her some comfort. It’s obvious she’s struggling with her situation, that’s all.

He holds her until she stops crying, and she rubs her face against his shirt as she clutches his back. She giggles softly and begins humming a song he doesn’t recognize, and begins to sway slightly. He tries to pull away but she protests and pulls him to her, still swaying.

“Ecnad htiw em,” she says, and she looks up at him with a watery smile. “Esaelp?”

The look in her eyes is imploring, even if he can’t understand her words. He sighs and lets her take his hand in hers, and she continues humming and swaying. He’s never liked dancing, he’s never been good at it, but he notices that she doesn’t seem to care and doesn’t try to get him to do more than hold her and sway.

As time passes he begins to relax, no longer standing as stiffly as he holds her. He slides his hand to her lower back and presses her forward, trying to feel every soft inch of her against him. She sings softly under her breath, a sweet song whose words he can’t understand but he doesn’t need to. There’s a wistful melancholy to the tone of her voice, and he can tell it’s a song about sadness and longing without comprehending the words. As he listens to her he smiles sadly and leans down, resting his cheek against the top of her head.

“Celia, you should go to sleep,” he murmurs softly when she finishes singing.

She sighs and pulls back, staring up at him, and this close her eyes look like pools of gold that he wants to lose himself in.

“Hm?” she hums, frowning at him, her eyes slightly unfocused.

“Sleep,” he says slowly, and he gestures with his hands under his head, miming sleeping.

She mouths something and then says, “Niaga?”

He recognizes the word from the times she’s said it before. “Sleep,” he repeats.

She smiles softly. “Sleep.”

He nods eagerly. “Yes, you should sleep.”

She purses her lips and looks at the cot, then back at him. “Cullen, sleep,” she says, and she points at him and then the cot.

He shakes his head adamantly. “No, Celia, I can’t -”

“Cullen, esaelp,” she sighs, and gestures again. “Sleep.”

He sighs and rubs his eyes, realizing she’ll probably keep insisting. She’s drunk and more stubborn than normal, and he groans as he finally gives a curt nod. “Fine, Celia, just – get in the cot if it makes you happy.”

Cecilia seems to understand that he’s acquiescing and she steps away from him. She starts undoing her pants and he splutters, causing her to look up.

“I – what are you -”

“I etah gnipeels ni sehtolc,” she sighs, but she sees that he looks bewildered and shocked and she rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she says.

He raises his eyebrows. “Fine?”

She stares at him for a moment and then laughs. “Sey, fine.”

It’s like she hadn’t even realized she had learned that word, but he realizes how much he must sigh it at her, how frequently he’s resigned himself to things in her presence. Apparently frequently enough that she learned how to sigh the word ‘fine’ with as much exasperation as he normally feels when he says it.

She crawls into the cot and pulls the blankets back invitingly, staring up at him. He steadies himself with a breath before he pulls his shirt off and throws it aside. When he kneels on the bed he notices her watching him eagerly, her eyes roaming over his chest.

“Er’uoy yrev emosdnah,” she smiles and then giggles, shaking her head at herself and whatever it is that she just said.

He quirks a brow but decides to ignore it, and lays back on the cot, holding one arm out, not entirely certain why he’s offering for her to lay on his shoulder. But she eagerly takes in the sight of his invitation and rests her head on his shoulder, wrapping one leg across him as she nestles close in his arms.

“Good night, Celia,” he murmurs, trying to ignore his body’s response to holding her this close.

“G-good night, Cullen,” she mimics, and he feels her softly press her lips against where they’re resting on his chest.


	9. 95%

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This save file is called "MGIT Shitshow" so the fact that you've all said you like it means a lot to me. I'm so glad you're enjoying it so far <3
> 
> xx,  
> L

She’s hot, and sweating.

When she opens her eyes the meager light hurts and she groans softly as she clamps them shut again.

 

_What hit me?_

_Oh, right – the half a bottle of Thedosian whiskey, probably._

 

She tries opening her eyes a slit so she can look around. Something feels different, and it takes her a moment to realize she’s in the cot, but this time – she’s not alone.

Looking down she sees arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly against the figure curled behind her and pressed to her back. The arms are covered in soft golden hair and a few scars, and her stomach suddenly lurches when she realizes who it is.

_Cullen is spooning me._

 

With another glance down she lets out a soft sigh of relief when she sees that she’s still wearing her clothes. Hopefully that means she didn’t do anything too stupid.

She lays still, her mind a jumble as she tries to remember what happened. She remembers taking a bath, and stealing the bottle of whiskey as she passed the soldiers playing cards. Cullen had stepped out, and she’d chugged far too much of the strong liquor before he came back. He’d been irritated with her, she could tell that much.

Although it mostly seemed like irritation that they still couldn’t understand one another, since she kept trying to talk to him in her drunken state. And then –

 

_Oh shit._

 

It suddenly comes back to her – crying in his arms, and then making him dance with her. She’s instantly mortified and lets out a groan as she remembers the way she insisted that he sway on the spot with her like an idiot. But she also recalls the way he had eventually relaxed into it, the way he had rested his head on top of hers and held her close to him. She frowns as she thinks about it, wondering if there’s a chance he actually enjoyed dancing with her.

She shakes her head at the thought – he doesn’t dance, he hates it.

 

_And yet he danced with you._

 

Trying to figure out why only makes her head hurt worse, and so she pushes the thoughts aside. He just gave in to her drunken, insistent whining and crying, that’s all.

She begins to think of how to get out of his arms, no longer able to stand how hot she is. They’re covered in several blankets, but he’s also burning up behind her. Vaguely she realizes he probably has a fever, and wonders if he’s holding her so tight to him because he was having nightmares. She was incredibly drunk and slept like she was dead; she doubts she would have woken up even if he’d had a full blown night terror.

For all she knows, he did, and that’s the reason he’s clinging to her so desperately.

Heaving a sigh she gently pulls his arms apart and tries to slide out of them, moving slowly and doing her best not to wake him. She’s still feeling too embarrassed and isn’t sure how she’ll handle it if he wakes up now, with her in his arms like she is.

Unfortunately, as soon as she thinks that and begins to move he stirs and opens his eyes. For a moment he looks around, his arms tightening around her again as he shifts and orients himself. When he seems to realize he’s holding her, he looks down to see her staring up at him over her shoulder, wide-eyed.

They’re closer to each other than they’ve been before, and it’s suddenly like time stills as they simply _stare,_ their faces mere inches apart.

Clearing his throat he quickly releases her and sits up, rubbing the back of his neck and looking around. “Woh era you gnileef?” he asks and looks over his shoulder at her.

She frowns and shrugs when he shakes his head in exasperation, remembering again that she can’t understand him.

“S’rekam htaerb,” he sighs. He looks back at her and taps her head with his fingers, frowning with concern as he does so.

“Ohhh,” she hums and nods. “Yeah, definitely regret everything. My head is killing me.”

She sits up and rubs her temples, realizing she’s thirsty and her lips are parched and cracked. She groans, her eyes shut tight as she tries to stop the room spinning. A hand rests on her shoulder and she looks up to see him awkwardly patting her, a sympathetic look on his face.

“You don’t have to be nice to me, I’m a disaster,” she sighs. “I’m sorry.”

This last she says in Common, and she’s surprised when he frowns at her and shakes his head. “T’nod eb. I dnastrednu.”

He sits beside her for another awkward moment before he pushes himself off the cot and stretches. She was about to follow him, but gets distracted as she watches his muscles flex. Remembering what she did in the bathhouse the night before, she groans and buries her face in her hands.

 

_I’m a mess._

 

Even though he can’t possibly know that she thought about him as she touched herself, she still feels incredibly embarrassed. Especially considering she then convinced him to dance with her while she was drunk.

 

_You need to get yourself under control._

 

She drops her hands in her lap and looks up to see him staring at her, still frowning with concern. She shakes her head and finally climbs off the cot before she pulls her boots on and grabs her coat, feeling suddenly in desperate need of fresh air.

He no longer seems concerned when she leaves the tent, as if he knows she isn’t going to run off. No doubt he thinks she’s off to relieve herself or even vomit in privacy. Instead she sits on the same stool she always does and pulls her pack of cigarettes out of her coat.

 

_Fourteen left._

 

She sighs and lights it, wondering what she’ll do when she runs out, and whether or not she should start saving them for the more stressful moments. Although she certainly feels like this counts as one of them. Her hands are shaking, and she tries to remember the last time she was so hungover that she shook. The mortification of how drunk she had been and everything she did makes her heart race, and she digs the heels of her hands into her eyes as she tries to steady herself.

He wasn’t acting like he was bothered by it, but she’s still intent on fixating on and chastising herself for her stupidity. She had simply wanted to forget, and now instead she wants to forget what she did to forget.

“Ohw era you?” a voice says suddenly, and she looks up to see a tall young man with black hair staring down at her. “I t’nevah nees you erofeb. Od you krow htiw eht Commander?”

The stranger is taking in her odd clothes, his eyes wandering over her and his brows furrowing as he notices her cigarette. She returns the silent gesture, trying to figure out how to answer him without knowing all of what he asked. When her eyes fall on his left hand she suddenly realizes where she’s seen him before and she gulps.

It’s the Herald.

“Ummm,” she hums, thinking fast. She hasn’t learned enough Common to answer him properly or explain who she is, and she’s worried what he’ll do when he hears her strange language. Instead of speaking, she simply shrugs and gestures at herself. “Cecilia.”

He frowns again, but after a moment he repeats, “Cecilia?”

She nods, but doesn’t try to elaborate, deciding to try to keep her lack of Common to herself.

“M’i Bron,” he says, almost eagerly. “Tahw era you gnoid ereh? Era you gnitiaw rof eht Commander? Ro era you -”

The tent flaps suddenly open and Cullen walks out, finishing pulling his sword belt on. “Dlareh! Si ereht gnihtemos I nac pleh you htiw?”

“I saw tsuj gnissap yb, I saw gnirednow fi you dluow raps htiw em siht gninrom.”

Cecilia takes another drag of her cigarette, watching the curious way the Herald almost bounces on his toes as he asks Cullen his questions. His grin is wide, he’s looking at Cullen with an enthusiastic gleam in his eyes, and something almost akin to hero worship.

She frowns as she watches the exchange, as Cullen nods and speaks with the young man, the tone of his voice almost deeper than normal. It’s curious to her until she realizes he’s standing a little taller, more dignified and almost puffed up.

 

_He knows this young kid looks up to him, he has to. God he almost looks like he’s enjoying the attention…_

 

Cecilia chuckles and shakes her head as she looks away, but she can tell the laughter catches their attention and Cullen frowns at her. “Celia, era you yrgnuh?” He gestures to his stomach but she denies it emphatically and laughs.

“No, no, please – I never want to eat again,” she groans, and then instantly regrets speaking when she sees the Herald’s reaction to her language.

“Ohw si ehs, Commander?” he asks, folding his arms.

“Yltsenoh I t’nod wonk,” Cullen sighs. “Ew t’nod erehw ehs emac morf.”

“Si ehs a tearht?”

“On, on,” Cullen looks at Cecilia for a moment, and then smiles before he gestures to the training grounds. “Llahs ew?”

She nods and puts her cigarette out in the snow, realizing that she’s going to be miserable wherever she is or what she’s doing.

 

_May as well watch the Herald and try to learn more Common while I’m at it._

 

She follows the two men, listening to them talk, watching as the Herald eagerly asks question after question and Cullen answers in a carefully measured tone. It almost seems like a mentoring session, and Cecilia raises her eyebrows as she watches them interact.

When they reach the training grounds, Cullen shouts commands at the recruits and sets them to sparring like normal, but he draws his own sword for once and turns to face the Herald. The young man does the same and they face each other, Cullen gesturing and speaking before they get into their stances.

As they begin to spar, Cecilia studies them intently, folding her arms and trying to focus on the way they both move. The Herald is young and seems mildly inexperienced, but it’s obvious he’s had training – she wonders what kind. If he’s a Trevelyan like she suspects, he possibly trained with his family’s knights. But he’s fighting similarly to Cullen, and she frowns as she watches them spar.

Cullen is relentless, and it’s obvious that his training method involves mercilessly beating his sparring partner to challenge him to be better. The young Herald doesn’t get frustrated though, and instead seems to be trying to memorize the Commander’s every move and word of advice. Cecilia is beginning to wonder at the lad’s age, since he seems to look up to Cullen with extreme reverence, like a role model or an older brother.

She watches them for what must be an hour, thoroughly engrossed in their interactions. When they finally finish and shake hands, Cullen turns to face her with a smile as he returns his sword to his scabbard.

“Llits gnileef lla thgir?” he asks, pointing at his head and then at her as he does so.

She shrugs. “Fine,” she replies in Common, and his smile widens.

“Doog,” he says, and looks at her pointedly. When all she does is frown, he repeats the word slowly.

After a moment she nods and tries it. “Good?”

He nods. “Good. Good boj.”

“Si ehs gninrael?” the Herald asks him, frowning between the two of them.

“Yes, yrev ylkciuq,” Cullen answers him, clasping his hands behind his back and turning his attention to the recruits behind them.

“Woh gnol sah ehs neeb ereh?” the Herald turns as well.

“Tsomla a keew.”

The Herald glances back at her, and it confirms her suspicion that they’re talking about her. She sighs and looks around, uncomfortable with how easy it is for her to be discussed while she’s standing right there.

Still, she listens eagerly and tries to focus on their pronunciations, intent on seeing if she can pick up on anything. They’re talking quickly, and her aching head feels more sluggish than normal. With a sigh she looks back at the village gates, getting an idea.

“Cullen?” she says, and he turns to face her with a curious frown. “Tent,” she points behind them.

He nods and she gives him a quick smile before she walks away. It’s the first time she’s wandered off from him during the day, since she follows him everywhere but war councils. It’s clear now that he trusts her, or at least – trusts that she won’t run off. Perhaps he understands that she has to rely on him, and knows that she wouldn’t willingly give up his protection.

When she makes it back to the tent she walks to his desk and opens the drawer, chuckling to herself that he acted like he was hiding the bottle from her by putting it there. She pulls the cork out and scrunches her nose as she takes a deep swig. After a moment she takes another, and then replaces the cork and the bottle. Stretching, she heaves a sigh and looks around the tent, trying to shake the embarrassment and melancholy her hungover brain seems intent to fixate on.

Instead, she gives into her feelings, and pulls her phone from her pocket and turns it on. She opens her picture gallery and swipes through it, looking at the photos from her last birthday party.

She’ll never see any of them again.

Tears fill her eyes when she stops on a picture of her kissing _him_. She doesn’t want to miss him, and she doesn’t want to feel so betrayed and heartbroken. But she does.

And the feeling just makes her feel lonelier.

Wiping her eyes she presses her lips together and turns her phone off.

 

_Ninety-five percent._

 

It was a mistake to look, because it makes her want to curl up in the cot and simply cry until her face hurts and her tears run dry. She pockets her phone and walks back to the desk, removing the bottle and taking one more large gulp of whiskey.

As much as she’s trying to accept everything, she’s not sure she’ll ever fully be all right ever again.

 

_I can never go home._


	10. How to Look Fereldan

He never meant for it to become a habit.

The night that she got drunk, he hadn’t found it worth arguing with her over where he slept, considering the fact that they couldn’t communicate and she was so stubborn in her intoxication. It had been easiest to just give in and share the cot.

But now, it’s been more than a week and she scoots to the side of the cot and folds the blankets down to wait for him every night. When he tried to protest, at first, she simply shook her head and patted the free space beside her more insistently.

If he’s honest, it’s been a relief, and oddly thrilling.

Since she’s been sharing his tent, and especially the cot, he’s been sleeping more soundly. He still has nightmares, but they’ve lessened in intensity. There’s something reassuring about waking up with a jolt from a nightmare to find her curled against him, her head on his shoulder or her petite form tucked into his embrace as he lies behind her.

She finally had gestured and asked for something else to sleep in one night, miming that she hated sleeping in her pants. She seemed to try to tell him too that she was getting hot with him in the cot with her as well – although, her solution wasn’t for him to resume his place on the floor. Instead, she just wanted something besides her everyday clothes to sleep in.

Now each night before bed, he turns and lets her change into one of his shirts before he joins her in the cot. She’s so small compared to him the shirt goes midway down her thighs, and even though she tries to tighten the laces on the front they still gap. The sight of the valley between her breasts continues to distract him every night, but he simply tries to clear his throat and ignore his urge to rest his cheek against them, or hold one in his hand.

He feels ashamed of himself every night as they curl against one another in the cot, thinking of how he’s only supposed to be keeping an eye on her and protecting her. She’s his charge, and he certainly shouldn’t be sharing a bed or cuddling with her. But she seems to sleep better, she seems less upset, less willing to drink herself to oblivion if he holds her to fall asleep. And if he’s honest with himself, it’s becoming the best part of his days.

She’s learned a bit more Common, mostly nouns for things that are easy for her to point to and ask, getting him to repeat the word until she can say it correctly. Asking for food and water has become easier, as well as giving her instructions for when he has war councils and has to leave her behind.

She seems just as frustrated by their lack of understanding though, and he catches her staring at him sometimes like she’s trying to figure out a way to communicate with him. He remembered one day the simple illustrated book that he and his siblings had used to learn to read, and he had begun to look into whether or not they could requisition one for her. It would be an even better start than they already had. Originally he had wondered if maybe her strange language was temporary, that perhaps her head injury had affected her ability to speak Common. But after how long it’s been he’s finally accepted that she must not have ever learned Common – and it leaves him wondering where she came from and how she ended up in Haven.

He’s been busier with his work with the Inquisition. The Herald left for the Hinterlands, and was sending reports about the status of the area and the work the Inquisition could do to impress the people. The Herald may be young, but he seems keen to make an impact and listen to others’ advice. He seems especially eager to get advice from Cullen, and often seeks him out for counsel and training when at Haven.

Cecilia seems to find this amusing, laughing to herself every time she sees the pair of them together. Cullen can’t make sense of it, but he can tell that she watches them more intently when they’re training or speaking to one another. At first he was worried when he noticed this, since they still didn’t know where she was from or why she was there. He had almost wondered whether or not she was somehow spying, that maybe she would target the Herald, that she had an ulterior motive. When she merely continued to sit and watch them spar and converse, a mildly curious look on her face, he realized he was being ridiculous thinking she could be a spy.

She’s just a lost soul, and it’s apparently fallen to him to protect and guide her.

 

 

It’s odd to him, the comfortable silence that they usually have now in the tent. Haven is beginning to wake up, recruits and others moving through the village, calling out to one another as they organize for the day. Cullen finishes stretching and begins to pull his armor on piece by piece, his back turned to Cecilia so that she can change out of the shirt she slept in.

He feels rested, more rested than he has in ages. The night before she had silently encouraged him to put his reports down, as if she was worried at how tired he looked. She had helped him hang his armor on its stand, and coaxed him into the cot with her where she had brushed his hair off his face and smiled at him sweetly.

Sometimes when she doesn’t think he is looking, he catches her looking sad, almost on the verge of tears. Yet every time she looks at him, she smiles brightly as if genuinely happy. It’s completely confusing to him, to say the least.

And he secretly hates how much he likes it, how thrilled he is to see her smile like that at him.

He shakes his head and finishes pulling his mantle over his shoulders, fixing it in place as he turns. She’s fastening the shirt she always wears, but she’s frowning, her nose scrunched at something that’s irritating her.

“Are you all right?” he asks, and she looks up as she finishes the last button.

She sighs and thinks for a moment, and he waits patiently for her to figure out how to tell him what’s wrong. Finally with another frown she looks up and tugs at her clothes and makes a disgusted face. “M’i kcis fo gniraew eseht.”

He furrows his brows and watches her pull her odd cloak on, thinking for a moment before he walks to the desk and picks up the coin purse sitting on it. He turns to face her and jingles the purse some, and points at her clothes. “We can get you some new ones, I have coin to spare. I’m sorry I didn’t think about it sooner.”

She frowns at him, and he knows that she understood the intention of his words, but seems to be wondering why he said ‘I’m sorry.’ She shakes her head and digs in her pocket, removing the sparkling wedding ring he had placed there. Stepping forward she places a hand on the coin purse and tries to lower his hand, holding the ring out to him instead. “You t’nod deen ot yap, I nac lles siht.”

“No, Celia, you need that,” he mirrors her gesture and pushes her hand back to her, holding the coin purse up instead. “It’s fine, I have the coin. I can buy you new clothes.”

She heaves a sigh and rolls her eyes, again seeming frustrated that she can’t just speak with him normally. With a glare down at the ring in her hand, she seems to concede his point and pockets it again.

“Why don’t you wear that? Every time you look at it, you look angry. Why?” he asks, but the only answer he gets is a confused frown. He heaves his own sigh and looks away, realizing it’s no use to try to mime anything to ask her. But her attitude about the fact that she’s married confuses him, and he wishes he knew how to ask her where her husband was and why she wasn’t in a hurry to get back to him.

As they leave the tent together he feels another pang of guilt as he thinks about how closely he’s been holding her to him as they sleep. He had forgotten, since she hadn’t worn the ring since that first night, that she is a married woman. He resolves himself to create distance between them again. Sleeping on the floor wasn’t so horrible, and he needs to resume his place there for propriety’s sake.

He leads her through Haven to the merchants, and begins to negotiate with them for clothes for her. She stands beside him watching the conversation intently, and looks over the garments as he picks them out for her. He wonders a bit if she’ll dislike what he’s choosing, and he frowns when he tries to figure out why. He’s picking things for warmth, for utility, realizing he knows very little about what women expect from clothes. Everything at the stand is much different than what she’s wearing, and he ponders the possibility that she’ll hate what he chooses. Maybe he should have left this task to Josephine or even Leliana.

He chances a glance at her to see her watching with a curious expression on her face. She almost looks embarrassed, yet eager. She looks up at him sheepishly as he hands over the coin to the merchant and hands her the large bundle of garments.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she says timidly. “I’m – I’m sorry, I hsiw I dluoc yap you kcab…”

“What are you sorry for?” he frowns as he leads her back to the tent.

She bites her lip and thinks hard, obviously trying to think how to explain. “I dluoc naelc ro nur sdnarre rof you,” she says, and she makes gestures around the tent like she’s saying she should perform tasks for him.

“You – you don’t need to do anything, it’s fine,” he shakes his head.

She sighs again and rolls her eyes. “Llew, thank you, niaga.”

He smirks at her continued jumble of Common and her strange language. “I’m – I’ll be at the training grounds,” he gestures out the tent, and then at her. “Come find me when you’ve finished changing.”

She nods and he hesitates only a moment before he turns and walks back out into Haven. He walks briskly to the training grounds, already arriving later for training than he normally does. Taking up his place beside Rylen he looks over the sparring recruits, noticing the incredible progress they’ve been making.

“Have you received word from the Herald?” Rylen asks after a moment.

“He should be back in a few days, he said they were finishing up their tasks securing horses for the Inquisition and helping the refugees,” Cullen answers before he shouts a correction to a recruit.

“I was impressed to read Cassandra’s report about his work so far,” Rylen comments before he also corrects a recruit near them.

“Yes, for his youth and lack of experience, it’s been impressive.”

“Did he tell you, was he a part of the Templar Rebellion from the Chantry?” Rylen clasps his hand behind his back as he looks up at Cullen, frowning slightly.

“He said he and a few of the others from Ostwick stayed loyal,” Cullen answers.

“I see. Well, I’m glad at least -”

When his second suddenly falls silent he turns and looks over his shoulder to see what the man is staring at.

Cecilia is walking toward them, and for a moment he almost doesn’t recognize her.

She has her long dark hair braided and hanging over her shoulder, standing out in contrast to the light fennec fur that’s lining the hood of the long wool cloak he bought her. The dark leather breeches he got her are tucked into sturdy, tall leather boots, and she has a matching leather vest over the dark grey shirt he picked out.

She almost looks Fereldan, and something about the sight sets his heart racing.

“I see she’s starting to fit in around here,” Rylen chuckles. “If she could speak Common I’d almost say she’s from somewhere nearby, wouldn’t you?”

“Y-yes, I agree,” Cullen clears his throat, trying to hide his stunned reaction to the way she looks.

She stops before them and smiles up at both of them, tugging the bottoms of the leather gloves she’s now wearing. “Od you ekil ti?” She asks, and does a small flourish and pose to show off the items he picked out and purchased for her. “Woh did you wonk I ekil kcalb os hcum?”

He frowns and she gestures at the cloak and leather she’s wearing, trying to draw his attention to something about them before she holds up her thumb. “Good,” she says.

He smiles. “Yes, good. I’m glad you like them.”

“Thank you, Cullen,” she smiles again, a brighter, warmer smile than normal.

He clears his throat and looks away from her with a jerky nod, trying to ignore the smirk on Rylen’s face.

He distracts himself by yelling at the recruits about their shields, keeping his eyes averted from the woman beside him.

She’s married and she isn’t Fereldan, and he tries to repeat those assertions to himself every time his mind wanders in her direction - which it continues to do despite how much he scolds himself for it.


	11. The Translator

“Oh what the hell,” she sighs, staring over the side of the cot at the sight beside her. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

There he is, laying in a tangle of blankets on the floor, without a pillow, twitching and murmuring indistinctly in his lonesome slumber. He had been insistent when she tried to get him to go to sleep that he still had work, and had gestured for her to go to sleep without him. Now she’s realizing he had meant to try to get her to go to sleep without him so that he could resume his place on the floor.

She knows it’s odd, and that he likely doesn’t understand it, but she’s been able to tell that they’ve both slept better since they started sharing the cot. He’s been visibly more rested, and she hasn’t had as much trouble staying asleep. She hates sleeping alone, and she feels fairly certain that he does as well, even if he doesn’t realize it.

Plus, she knows she would be a fool if she doesn’t take the chance to sleep on _his_ shoulder or in _his_ arms when presented with the opportunity.

She heaves a sigh and rubs her eyes, thinking. Outside the tent is still dark and quiet, and she can tell they have several hours until dawn. He won’t get into the cot if she wakes him up, she’s fairly certain. Something seems to have changed, like he suddenly thinks it’s wrong and that he shouldn’t sleep beside her any longer.

 

_No doubt some knightly, chivalrous notion of decency._

 

She tries to think about what happened that day, but besides the fact that he bought her clothes, she can’t immediately think of what may have caused the abrupt change. He’s reluctant to even let her help around the tent as thanks, and he wouldn’t let her try to –

And then she realizes what it must have been – she had offered to sell her ring, and he had seemed confused again by her willingness to part with it.

 

_He must think I have someone waiting for me, and seeing the ring again must have reminded him._

 

She rolls her eyes, trying to think if there was any way to mime, _‘yeah I was engaged to a shithead and never want to see him again.’_

She’s not sure there is.

He moans softly in his sleep and thrashes slightly, rolling over to face away from her. Contemplating for only a moment more, she slides out of the cot and drags one of the blankets with her. She lies down behind him and covers them with the blanket, curling herself against his back and wrapping her arm around his waist.

 

_I’m currently big spoon to Cullen Rutherford._

 

With a soft chuckle at herself, she snuggles her face against his warm back and closes her eyes, easily drifting off to sleep once more.

 

 

_“Maker’s breath!”_

She opens her eyes and sees a face right next to hers, and after blinking quickly she realizes Cullen is mere inches away from her.

“Celia, tahw era you gniod?” he asks, and he quickly sits up and looks around. He rubs his neck and scoots away from her slightly, as if embarrassed.

It takes her a moment to get her bearings, and she realizes they’re on the floor together. She remembers moving in the middle of the night, but she had been cuddling him when she first lay down. Now, from the way things felt when she woke up, it seems they had rolled to face each other, their legs intertwined and their bodies close together, and – had they been holding hands?

“You didn’t sleep in the cot with me,” she yawns and stretches slightly, slurring her mix of Common and English since he taught her the word for ‘cot’ a few days ago. He’s still looking away from her, and seems to be turning his body slightly away from her.

“I t’ndluohs. I nac sleep no eht dnuorg,” he sighs, and he almost sounds irritated. He looks over his shoulder at her finally, and she smirks and shakes her head at him.

“No. You sleep in the cot with me,” she says, and he raises his eyebrows at her. She said enough of it in Common, and he knows what she’s insisting on.

“Celia,” he shakes his head and seems to be thinking hard. He turns back to her and takes her left hand in his and taps her ring finger with his thumb. “Er’uoy deirram.”

She frowns and pushes herself into a sitting position, trying to think of a way to answer the question she’s fairly certain he’s asking. He suddenly seems distracted, though, and she follows his gaze as he clears his throat and quickly turns around again. He’s blushing profusely, and it only takes her a moment to realize why.

The shirt of his that she’s wearing is twisted around her, and the unlaced opening in the neck of it is down and –

 

_Shit, I just flashed him._

 

She hurries to adjust the shirt, feeling her cheeks heat. “Sorry, I’m so sorry,” she murmurs in Common. Torn between wanting to cry, scream, or hide from everything for the rest of her life, she buries her face in her hands. “I – oh fuck, that’s just my luck.”

Awkward silence falls and her heart hammers in her chest, her hands shaking as she torments herself with the knowledge that she just accidentally showed him her breast. As much as she’s been thinking about him and wishing they could just _talk_ already so she could flirt with him, she definitely didn’t want to mortify them both this way.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck.

She laughs and shakes her head, digging her hands into her eyes more forcefully. “No, no, Cullen, I’m sorry. Maker’s breath.”

“Maker’s breath?” he repeats.

She raises her head and stares at him for a moment, and then starts laughing harder. “You say that all the time, I figured it out,” she tells him, and gestures at him with a finger, playfully accusing him.

He chuckles and hangs his head, shaking it. After a moment it feels like they’ve gotten past the awkwardness, and he looks back up at her and gestures at her left hand again. “Ruoy gnir?”

“Oh, right,” she mutters and stares down at her hand. She’s still trying to think of a way to mime that she was better off without her fiancé, that he’d cheated and waking up in Thedas had been a shock but also, somehow, a relief. Instead she meets his gaze and simply shakes her head.

“Era you a wodiw?” he asks with a frown, but he sighs when she shrugs and he can’t think of a way to ask without words. He points at her finger again and shakes his head. “Ton deirram?”

She holds her hand up and wiggles her fingers at him, shaking her head. “Single, never married – thank god.”

He watches her for a moment and then nods, and a small smile tugs up the corners of his mouth. "Good. M’i – m’i dalg.”

 

 

Considering her days are spent just following Cullen around as he performs his duties, time passes incredibly quickly. She watches as the Herald returns from the Hinterlands, and how he eagerly greets Cullen, giving him his report and trying to maintain dignified professionalism as he does. She watches as he rides off again the day after his return, and she knows he has to be heading to Val Royeaux.

Some days she sits in the Chantry while Cullen is at war councils, finding the peaceful bustle within the large stone building more enthralling than the tent. At first Mother Gisele tries to speak with her, but she simply makes gestures that she knows lead the woman to believe that she’s mute.

Honestly, that’s easier than the alternative, and so she simply shrugs helplessly as the Revered Mother nods sadly and pats her on the shoulder before walking away.

Now that she’s stopped wearing the clothes she arrived in, she easily passes as someone who belongs, but it’s clearly leading everyone to believe that she is actually a part of their world. It’s frustrating because more and more she’s beginning to accept her reality, as odd as it is to her. And all she wants is to be able to talk with them, to speak with Cullen and explain everything – if it’s even possible.

Sitting in the Chantry, she can hear the advisors arguing, can hear their raised voices and exasperated tones. She doesn’t need to understand the words to know what they’re arguing about – mages vs. Templars.

She wishes she could tell them, she wishes she could find a way to explain what was going on to them. Although, would they even believe her if she could?

The Herald returns from Val Royeaux visibly shaken, and Cecilia wonders what rattled him so much. She remembers what happens in the Orlesian city, and though upsetting, it shouldn’t have him so unsettled.

When he sets off almost immediately with his companions in tow, Cecilia frowns and wonders where he’s going, and which side he chose.

Cullen is suddenly more focused, it seems, and she has to work harder each night to coax him to bed. He usually acquiesces with an exasperated sigh, though she feels like she has to badger him with what little Common she knows to get him to put down his work.

Once they’re in the cot, though, he clings to her as if he’s been waiting all day to try to go to sleep. Falling asleep now involves a bit more snuggling, and when she nuzzles her nose against his chest he tightens his arms around her.

If they can act this way without words, she suddenly finds herself wondering what will happen if they can actually learn to speak to one another.

 

 

 

 

“You don’t belong here.”

Cecilia stops where she is, frozen in her tracks on the small path she was wandering. She turns slowly, and it takes her a moment to realize she recognizes the voice, even if she can’t understand what it’s doing in Haven.

“I can understand you – I can hear you. You’re so loud. You’re so sad, so lonely,” the pale figure continues. “‘Why did I ever believe him that he loved me? He’s part of why I’m in this mess, because he lied, because I left. I shouldn’t miss him, but I do – and I hate it. I didn’t know Thedas was real – and _him_ , he’s real too. He holds me at night, he smiled when I said I wasn’t married, but still everything is just pain, it hurts. I can never go home, and no one here will ever understand me. I’m trapped, I’m alone – probably forever. God I need a drink. Or four.’”

“C-Cole?” Cecilia says when he trails off in repeating the musings she had just been lost in on her walk. “But – if you’re here, if you’re -”

She stares, almost horrorstruck at the spirit in the shape of a young man standing before her. The weight of his presence now, and not later, crashes over her.

“He wants to understand you, he wants it more than anything. He thinks about all the things he would say to you, if you could only understand him,” Cole continues, and suddenly he reaches out and touches her temple with his fingers.

She feels an odd sensation, like warmth spreading through her head, like standing under a hot shower without getting wet. “What are you doing -”

“Now he can understand you. Now you can understand him, just like you both want. It will make you happy, since you’re both so lonely,” Cole tells her. “Thedas won’t be so strange for you, now that you can continue your work. Translate – that’s what you’ve wanted, that’s what you do, right? You translate, you talk. You should talk with him.”

“You – you made it so that I can understand?” Cecilia’s jaw drops as she absorbs his words. “I can -”

“You should go speak with him. You have a lot to say, I know,” Cole drawls, and then he turns and begins to walk away.

For a moment Cecilia simply stands and stares after the spirit, until she fully realizes what he said. She turns quickly and jogs through the village, hoping to catch Cullen before his war council.

She throws the flaps of the tent open and sees him gathering reports from his desk. He looks up and smiles before he returns to what he’s focused on.

“Good, I was hoping you’d be back soon, I’m off for a war council now that the Herald has returned” he says. He’s still looking down and doesn’t notice the look on her face, doesn’t realize that she’s staring at him because she finally understands what he’s saying. “I – um, well, stay here, right?”

He glances back up and does his usual gestures, but frowns when he sees the look on her face. Her heart is pounding and for several moments she tries to think of what to say, what topic she wants to bring up first now that they can communicate.

Before she can stop herself, she puts her hands on her hips and glowers at him. “You convinced the Herald to seek out the _fucking Templars_?” Shock comes across his face and for several long moments he simply stares at her. When he doesn’t reply right away she throws her head back on her shoulders and groans. “I can’t believe you – what about the mages? Did you just not care that they were wrapped up with Tevinter? Are you kidding me?”

“I – I – Celia, I can understand you,” he stutters. His shocked expression gives way to a dangerous scowl, and he throws his reports back on his desk. “How? How can I suddenly understand you? And how do you know about the Templars, how do you know about the mages and Tevinter?”

She bites her bottom lip and looks away from him, realizing she let herself get carried away.

 

_Fuck, that was not the first thing I should have said._

 

But she has barely a moment to even think how to correct her mistake before he strides around the desk. He grabs her upper arm, pulling her to him and gripping her shoulders tightly. It’s painful, his fingers digging into her until she’s certain she’s going to bruise.

“Tell me now, Celia – who are you, how did you know all of that?” he growls, lowering his face so that he can peer more closely into her eyes. “And how is it I can finally understand you?”

“I – it’s complicated,” she squeaks, bringing her hands up between them and pressing them against his armored chest. “Cu-Cullen, you’re hurting me, please -”

She cuts off mid-sentence when he shakes her and tightens his grip further, causing her to whimper. “Answer me, woman.”

“There’s – there’s a spirit here. You’ll meet him in a few minutes at the war council – his name is Cole,” she answers in a rush. His fingers are still squeezing her and she pushes more firmly against his chest, suddenly terrified of him. This was not how she saw their first conversation going. “He – he helped me, he did something, and made it so that I could understand, so that I could speak to you.”

“A spirit? You mean a demon,” he growls, and something dangerous shifts behind his eyes. “Did you make a deal with him? Are you – are you -”

“No, Cullen, it – I can’t explain it, I don’t know what he did. It was just – suddenly I could understand,” she whines, and she feels tears pricking her eyes. “Please, please Cullen – you’re hurting me, you’re -”

“How did you know about the mages?” he interrupts loudly, and he doesn’t loosen his grip on her shoulders. “How did you know the Herald went to search for the Templars? No one knows that, no one except for his advisors and the companions who went with him. Are you spying? Did you -”

“No, I promise, I’m not spying,” she’s finally crying, unable to stop herself. She’s scared, the look in his eyes so distrustful and angry she’s shaking like a leaf and unable to calm herself. “I promise, I couldn’t understand until a few moments ago, I -”

“Then how did you know what the Herald was doing?” he growls.

“I – I overheard someone, just now, on my way to the tent,” she lies quickly. “I saw a Templar, I – please, you’re scaring me.”

His eyes roam over her face, his brows furrowed in a sharp frown as he studies her intently. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“I’m a nobody,” she whimpers. “I’m just someone who got lost. I don’t know how I got here. I’m just Cecilia, I’m a – a translator. Or, I _was_ a translator.”

“A translator?” his angry scowl momentarily gives way to confusion.

“Yes, I – I worked with diplomats, with ambassadors, I – I translated for dignitaries,” she cries.

“Are you from Orlais, then? Why couldn’t you speak Common?”

“I – I’m from somewhere else. I can’t explain.”

“Try.”

It’s a dangerously challenging command, and his fingers tighten again as he says it, eliciting another whimper of pain from her. She isn’t sure she can explain, she isn’t sure he would believe her even if she tried. She wracks her brain, trying and trying to think of a way to tell him that will appease his curiosity without making her seem like she’s lying. “I’m from far away – I don’t know how I got here. I was knocked unconscious in an accident and I woke up here, in the snow outside of Haven by myself.”

He’s glaring at her, and she isn’t sure if he believes her. Confusion and anger are tangling together on his face as his eyes bore into hers. She’s still crying, the hot tears spilling down her cheeks as she chews her bottom lip and stares up at him. Her arms are almost going numb from how tightly he’s holding her shoulders, and she’s long since given up trying to push against his chest, her hands now resting listlessly on his armor.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he releases her and she almost stumbles back from him. She raises her hands to her shoulders, crossing her arms before her and rubbing the painful spots where his fingers had been biting into her.

“You will stay here, you won’t leave this tent nor speak to anyone else, do you understand me?” he says, using the tone of voice he reserves for yelling commands at recruits.

She nods and presses her lips together, unable to speak. Her voice is too weak, and she knows if she tries to answer him it will just come out as a pathetic, choked sob.

“I’ll be back after the war council and I’ll – deal with you then,” he tells her, and then sighs in exasperation. He rubs the back of his neck and stands for a moment, not looking at her as he thinks. She wonders a bit if he wants to say something, but then he walks briskly to the desk and snatches up the reports he had tossed there. He walks across the tent to the flaps and stops before he exits, turning around to face her, an interesting look on his face. “Don’t even try to run, Celia. I’d find you, no matter where you went.”

And with that he turns and leaves her alone in the tent, still shaking and chewing her lip as she cries.

Several moments pass and she simply stands there in shock, trying to comprehend what just happened. Weeks and weeks of thinking about talking to him, and now their first conversation and she blew it.

The horrible realization about the mages and Templars though had shaken her, and she wishes she hadn’t run into Cole when she did. As grateful as she is to have language back, she’s not sure it was worth the trade off of seeing Cullen look at her the way he just had.


	12. Questions and Answers

“Commander?”

“Hm?”

He looks up from where he was scowling at the map on the war table, lost in thought. Leliana and Josephine are frowning at him, the Herald almost looking hurt by his distracted attitude to what was being discussed.

“Is everything all right?” Leliana asks.

“Yes, sorry, just – contemplating our next move and our, ah, _guest_ ,” Cullen rubs the back of his neck and sighs. He’s really thinking about Cecilia, he’s thinking about her sudden fluent Common and knowledge of the Inquisition’s struggles and plans. He hasn’t been able to make any sense of it, even with the sudden appearance of the one she had told him about on the war table.

“He’s trustworthy, Commander,” the young Herald chimes in. “He helped save me in Therinfall, he – he says he wants to help. I think he can.”

Cullen stares at the young man, his eyebrows slightly raised. The Herald is becoming more confident, more sure of his decisions. But there’s still a hesitancy in him, and Cullen can tell he’s almost searching for approval from _him_ for this decision. He isn’t certain what to make of it, especially since the other advisors seem upset with the young man’s loyalty to the Templars, even after everything the Order had done.

And he hates to admit it, but Cecilia’s strange admonition of the decision is wearing on him as well, even though he knows he shouldn’t worry about her opinion.

 

_She lied, about who knows how much – I shouldn’t worry about her thoughts on the matter._

But he does anyway, because the angry disappointment he saw in her eyes tugged at something inside of him.

He shakes his head to clear it and finishes listening to the Herald speak of Therinfall, and begins to plan with the others for their assault on the Breach. They need to wait for the veteran Templars to arrive, and when they’ve accomplished as much as they can without their presence, they decide to call it an evening.

Cullen picks his reports up and quickly departs the room, his head throbbing and his heart pounding. He needs to get answers from Cecilia, and he begins to mull over the best approach. He knows that he lost his temper earlier and frightened her, and decides that he needs to try a different tactic. Making her cry and cower isn’t going to be the best way to discover the truth.

His mind keeps bringing the terrified look on her face to the surface, tormenting him with the way she had been crying as she stared up at him. Whenever he tries to banish the image, he’s simply faced with others – her sweet smile, or the sight of her sleeping on his shoulder.

Honestly, those aren’t any better.

“She just wanted to speak with you,” a voice says from behind him.

He spins and mutters a curse. “Don’t – sneak up on people like that,” he grits out, trying to steady himself.

Cole steps forward and bows his head, his face hidden by the large hat he’s wearing. “All she wants is to talk with you. You’ve done so much for her, and she’s so lonely, so sad. ‘He lied to me, but Cullen’s sweet – he almost acts like he cares, like he wouldn’t hurt anyone, ever.’”

“‘He?’ Who’s ‘he?’ What are you saying, what are you -” Cullen frowns, forgetting that all he wants is to get away from the strange young man. Cecilia had called him a spirit, and all he feels is uneasy wariness as he looks at him.

“Talk to her,” Cole says. “She – she needed help, and I tried to help. But I think I did it wrong. If you talk to her, maybe she’ll feel better. Maybe she won’t need to drink, maybe she won’t want to throw herself off one of the cliffs outside of Haven.”

“What?” Cullen splutters, feeling his heart skip a beat as he absorbs the spirit’s words. “She wants to – Maker -”

He doesn’t stay to listen to the rest of what Cole wants to tell him, instead hurrying through the Chantry and out into Haven. When he reaches the path to his tent, he sees her sitting on the stool, the one she always sits on when she steps out. Her forehead is resting against the heels of her hands, her elbows on her knees. She looks defeated, miserable. Between two of her delicate fingers is one of those strange white sticks of herbs she smokes, and after a moment of watching her he can see her shoulders shaking slightly.

He takes careful strides forward and she looks up suddenly, her eyes wide. She takes one last quick puff on the herbal stick and throws it in the snow before she scurries into the tent, as if she’s scared he caught her outside of it. Heaving a sigh he rushes forward and pushes open the flaps, only to see her huddled in the middle of the cot looking completely terrified.

“I’m sorry – I just, I can’t stop crying, I can’t -” she’s weeping as she hurries to apologize to him. Every word she speaks is accented with a sob, her voice shaky and strained. “I didn’t mean to leave the tent, I just -”

He frowns, realizing that he did this, he made her this inconsolable with how he acted before. “It’s – Celia, it’s fine, you didn’t _leave_ , I – what are those things that you smoke, anyway?”

She tries to take a steadying breath but seems to struggle to do so, still sobbing as she wipes at her cheeks. “They’re – um, they’re tobacco, it’s an herb. It helps c-calm me down, I – I sh-shouldn’t smoke, I sort of have m-mild asthma, but I – I have anxiety, too. I c-can’t stop crying, I think – I think I’m having a panic attack.”

And she dissolves into more crying.

He stares at her, realizing even though he understood her words, he only comprehended half of what they meant.

 

_Tobacco? Asthma? A panic attack?_

 

He watches as she presses a hand to her chest and tries to take a deep breath, but all that happens is a shuddering inhale that gives way to more hysterical sobs. She buries her face against her bent knees, wrapping her arms around her legs and almost wailing.

“Celia – I – please, stop crying,” he says, trying to hide his frustration and irritation. He hates that she’s crying, he hates that he probably caused it. He hates that he feels like he can’t do anything to fix it, especially since all he really wants is more answers, and at the moment she hardly seems fit to give him any.

“I – I – I can’t, you – you hate me, you think I’m a spy, that I’m a – a liar,” she wails. “I’m not, I s-swear, I just – I’m lost, and alone, and I – I thought we were – maybe we were friends, maybe you ca -”

But her voice chokes and she seems unable to continue.

“I – I just need some answers, Celia, I don’t know what’s going on,” he tells her, and all she does is cry in response. He sighs and rubs his neck, looking around the tent with increasing frustration.  “Listen, I – you went from not being able to speak with me at all to understanding everything. You knew about what the Herald was doing. You – you mentioned a spirit. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so, um – _rough_ , with you. But I – I have a duty to protect the Inquisition, and -”

“I’m not a threat!” she chokes out, raising her tear-streaked face to look at him. “I promise, I’m not – I’m not a spy, I’m not a danger. I’m just – I’m just -”

But she’s again unable to continue. Cullen sighs and looks around the tent, unable to take the sight of her tears as he thinks. He walks slowly to his desk and sets his reports down before he pulls the chair from behind it and drags it to sit beside the cot. Taking his seat on it, he places his elbows on his knees and leans forward, slouching and trying not to look intimidating to her.

“Celia, I – I don’t think you’re a spy,” he says slowly. “But I need answers, I need you to explain how you got here and what you’re doing.”

She raises her head and holds his gaze, tears still leaking out of her bloodshot brown eyes as she stares silently at him. After a moment she turns to face him and scoots forward, curling her legs under herself, her fingers gripping the edge of the cot in her eagerness. “I’ll – I’ll tell you what I can. But I – I don’t understand everything myself.”

“Thank you,” he nods. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“I told you, I’m a nobody,” she responds, and she chews her lip for a moment as she tries to steady her breath and stop crying. “I’m Cecilia – Cecilia Moore. And I wasn’t lying, I’m a – _was_ an interpreter, a-a translator. I worked with diplomats, I did translations of speeches, I helped them speak with one another at gatherings.”

“You translate languages?” he asks, frowning. “What languages, if you didn’t know Common?”

“I – languages from where I’m from. It’s a – small but diverse place. I – well, there were a lot of languages,” she looks down at where she’s fidgeting with the blankets on the cot.

“And where is that? Where are you from?”

“Far away,” she sighs, and another tear slides down her cheek. “I – I don’t think I can ever make it back. It’s – it’s not important, anymore.”

Her voice is barely audible, and the way that it cracks but doesn’t cause her to sob hurts him more than her hysterics did. It’s as if the pain is so deep she can’t even cry about it.

“How did you end up here, in Haven?” he prompts after a moment, thoroughly confused. She seems unwilling to expand on where she’s from, and he’s curious why she can’t explain it.

“I don’t know, to be honest,” she sighs. “As I said, I was – I was in an accident, and I woke up here in the snow with a head injury.”

“You don’t remember anything?”

For a moment she stares down at the fingers that are tugging at the pilled bits of wool on the blanket, biting her lip as if she’s lost in thought. Then she shakes her head. “No, I – I don’t. I don’t know. Suddenly, I was just here.”

“What about family – isn’t anyone looking for you? We can try to get you back to them -” he trails off when she begins to shake her head.

“No, there’s – I mean, some friends will miss me,” more tears slide down her cheeks. “But my – my parents died years ago and I was an only child. And my fi -”

She stops suddenly, shaking her head and scowling.

“Celia,” he begins slowly after several moments of silence. “The ring, the one you were wearing – are you married? Or are you – are you a widow?”

She lets out a hollow laugh and looks up at him, shaking her head. “No, I’m not married, I never have been,” she sighs. “I – I was engaged. Erm, betrothed. I was betrothed to someone, but he – uh…”

She trails off and raises a hand to her mouth, absently chewing a thumb as she becomes lost in thought.

“He what? Did he die? Or did – did he not agree to the arrangement? Was it a dowry issue?” he shrugs, realizing he has no inkling why her betrothal may have fallen through or why she doesn’t seem sad to be away from her betrothed.

“No, it wasn’t anything like that, he, um,” she heaves another sigh and looks away from him. “He – I caught him, um, with someone else. He was having an affair, he – he had a mistress.”

Cullen raises his eyebrows as he watches her wiping the tears sliding down her cheeks. For the life of him, he can’t imagine anyone taking a lover when they were set to marry _her_. “Was it an arrangement? Were you – was he chosen by your parents, or -”

She shakes her head and giggles. “No, I chose him myself,” she rubs her forearm over her brows, looking thoroughly exasperated. “Seven years of my life wasted, because I’m an utter fool. I couldn’t see the truth, I just…he was a mistake. I took too long to realize it, though.”

“So you’re not – no one is looking for you?” he asks, trying to distract himself from the odd way his stomach flutters when he realizes she really isn’t attached or promised to anyone else.

She stares at him, her honey eyes shining gold in the torchlight of the tent, and then she slowly shakes her head. “No, if I – I’m stuck here, and no one will care. Not really, anyway. I’ll become a sad memorial post once a year, a topic of conversation. But no one will really, truly miss me.”

Cullen feels his heart ache as he sees the way she sets her chin when she says it, the way she seems so certain that no one misses her or is looking for her. “Surely someone is looking for you, Celia -”

“Even if they are, I can’t get back to them,” she interjects. “So there’s no point thinking about it. I’m here, now – with you.”

He almost hates the way he wants to smile when he hears her say that.

“So what – what should I do with you?” he asks after a moment, clearing his throat and sitting back in the chair again to create some distance between them.

“I – I don’t know anything about this world,” she whispers. “I couldn’t survive without you. Please, Cullen – please don’t throw me out. I can help you, I’ll – I’ll clean, I’ll run errands, I’ll transcribe for you, if Cole’s language fix or whatever means that I can also write and read Common. Please, I’ll make myself useful, just – let me stay. Let me remain by your side. Please.”

He contemplates her for a moment, trying to make himself think over all of his options instead of going with his gut response, which is screaming again and again for him to just say _‘yes.’_

“I – this is a shock, Celia,” he sighs and looks away, trying to ignore his heart thumping against his ribs. “But I – I suppose the easiest way for me to keep an eye on you is to keep you beside me, as you have been. I won’t turn you loose, but – you have to stay by me. I can’t let you out of my sight.”

“Agreed,” she says, almost too quickly, and he turns to look at her. “Cullen, I – I’ll do what I can to help. I promise, if you just keep me safe, I’ll – I’ll do what I can to help you.”

He smiles despite himself. “Deal, Celia.”


	13. Decency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like having songs for my pairings, and this one is for Cullen and Cecilia, if you want to have a listen.
> 
>    
> [Apocalypse by Cigarettes After Sex](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tLqfkSTtEAI)

“What is this?”

Cecilia purses her lips and stares at the lighter Cullen is holding up, trying to think how to explain it to him. “It’s called a lighter, it’s – it’s a portable way to make fire.”

“Yes, I’d figured that much out,” he shakes his head and gives her a small grin. “But where did you get it? Did you make it?”

She giggles. “I’m not that talented. They’re common, where I’m from.”

“And where is that, again?” he raises an eyebrow, watching her closely. It’s like he thinks he can catch her off guard and get her to answer if he just springs the question on her like this.

“Far away,” she repeats her earlier assertion and looks away from him, tugging absently on the blanket she’s sitting on.

He’s still sitting in the chair beside the cot, only he’s scooted it closer now. He insisted that she lay out the items she had arrived with, and he studied them intently before he settled on asking her about the lighter first. She watches as he sets it down and picks up the crumpled receipt and looks it over.

“Is this your language? What is this?”

She giggles again and reaches for it, reading through it. “Yes, that’s my language. It’s a – um, receipt, a list of goods I purchased and their prices. Mostly, it was wine, this was from a – tavern.” She shakes her head, trying not to dissolve into laughter at the way she’s having to think of ways to say certain things. _‘Liquor store’_ probably would have just confused him further.

He frowns and takes it back from her, looking over it once more. “Your language looks – odd. Is this all about wine? Why did you buy so much?”

“I – I drank a lot of wine, when I was home. My fiancé always worked late, and I -” she trails off as horrible realization comes over her. Instead of feeling angry, though, she starts laughing. “He probably wasn’t actually working late, now that I think about it. So now I wish that I had done more than just sit home and drink wine, all things considered.”

“You think – you mean he was with his mistress?” Cullen frowns, and he glances down at the ring that’s lying on the cot.

“Yes, if it was only just the one,” she shrugs.

He looks up at her, surprise evident on his face. “You think he had more than one?”

“It doesn’t really matter, now,” she sighs. “I wish I had caught him sooner. I turned down an opportunity to go work for the United Na – erm, somewhere important, in another place where I was from. I refused so I could stay with him since he couldn’t leave his job, he – he was military.”

“He was a soldier?” Cullen raises his eyebrows. “And he acted so dishonorably?”

For a moment Cecilia simply stares at him, and then begins laughing, unable to help it. Cullen looks like he’s taking it as a personal offense that her fiancé was having an affair, as if he’s personally insulted that a soldier could do such a thing. “Not every soldier is a decent person,” she shrugs when she finally quiets herself.

“If he had been one of my soldiers, I would have seen him reprimanded,” Cullen declares firmly as he sets down the receipt.

Cecilia bites her lip and stares down at her fingers as she fidgets with the blanket. For all she knows, her fiancé has been reprimanded. Before she left, before the accident – she had sent the picture in an email to his superiors with an explanation. It had felt petty and low, except for the fact that the woman in the picture, the one who had sent it to her, had been one of her fiancé’s subordinates.

With a jolt she realizes that her car accident and disappearance so soon after sending that sort of an email has to look suspicious, and she wonders what sort of investigation is being conducted back home. In her anger she had meant to affect his career considering the unethical nature of his actions, but now she’s realizing she’s likely ruined his life.

 

_It’s not like I got myself to Thedas, though. How was I supposed to know that would happen?_

 

She thinks about how hard she had been wishing to get away from everything, though. Considering where she ended up, the fact that she was suddenly in a magical world she had assumed was a fiction – she almost wonders if somehow her wish came true.

“Your ring looks expensive,” he muses, and she looks up to see him holding it between his fingers and inspecting it closely.

“It is,” she sighs. “Odd tradition where I’m from, spending too much on a ring when you propose. I was intending to sell it, to pay for a place to live. Now though – I mean, is that sort of thing valuable here?”

He looks at her, his eyes wide. “Surely you’re joking,” he says, and when she shakes her head he chuckles. “Celia, if you sold this, you could probably buy three houses, at least.”

She raises her eyebrows and considers her ring. “What if – I mean, I need _some_ money, but,” she chews her lip for a moment as she thinks. “What if you sold it, for the Inquisition?”

“What? Why would you -” he splutters, looking incredulous at the suggestion.

“I don’t need it, any longer. And if I’m here, if I’m staying with you, I’d – well, I’d like to help. You need money, don’t you? For resources?”

“Celia, we couldn’t accept that, we can’t -” he shakes his head and tries to hand it to her, but she closes her fingers around his and pushes his hand back toward him.

“Please? I’d like to get rid of it, and at least this way it could do some good,” she tells him. “Just maybe I’ll take a bit of the money, so that I can purchase my own clothes and supplies. But otherwise, the Inquisition could use the aid.”

He stares down at where she’s holding his hand and furrows his brows. “If – if you’re sure -”

“I am.”

Cullen looks back up at her and slowly nods. “You really don’t want to keep it, do you?”

“Every time I look at it, I think about how foolish I was, and how many years I wasted on him. I don’t want it,” she sighs and finally releases his hand.

He follows her hand’s movement with his gaze, watching as she resumes fidgeting with the blanket. “How many years did you say?”

“Seven.”

“How – how old are you? You don’t seem that old for -” he’s frowning at her, an odd sort of curiosity on his face.

“I’m twenty-seven,” she answers. “Why, how old are you? I thought twenty-seven would be _ancient_ , here.”

He shakes his head as she giggles. “If seven and twenty is ancient, five and thirty must mean I’m at death’s door.”

She bites her lip and looks over his face. “You look very good for a dying man, I’d say.”

He clears his throat and glances away from her, and it takes her a moment to realize he’s blushing. She can’t resist flirting with him though, now that they can actually speak to one another and he's no longer shouting at her.

She watches as he sets down the ring and picks up her lip balm instead. “And what is this?” he asks, though his voice sounds a little strained like he’s trying to change the subject. “I’ve seen you putting it on your lips…” He trails off as he glances up and stares at the aforementioned part of her face.

“Oh, it’s – um, it’s called lip balm. It’s a sort of salve, or balm,” she giggles and shakes her head. “It keeps your lips from drying out, keeps them soft.”

“I – I see,” he clears his throat and looks down, opening the tube and staring at it. He smells it and then glances up at her. “It – it smells nice.”

She continues to giggle, again reminded of _George of the Jungle_ , feeling almost like Tarzan and Jane.

 

_Is this real life?_

 

“Did I say something wrong?” he asks, and she looks up from her laughing to see him frowning at her, bewildered.

“No, I’m sorry, I just,” she wipes her eyes and tries to quiet herself. “It’s just – odd, sitting here going through common things with you like this. Please, continue.”

Cullen sets the lip balm down, almost sheepishly, but he picks up her phone and turns it over as he studies it. Her breath suddenly catches in her throat, realizing she has no idea how to explain what that is.

She isn’t certain she wants to. If a lighter was new and thrilling for him, she isn’t able to predict how he’ll respond to a phone. Her mind races as she tries to think of a lie, of a way to hide its true function but make him believe her.

“What is this?” he asks again.

“Um, it’s a – mirror,” she says, saying the first thing she can think of.

“A mirror?” he holds it up to look in the screen. “It’s so dark, why would you want a mirror that hardly works?”

She shrugs. “It was the latest style. There’s some, uh, odd fashions where I’m from.”

“Are you certain you’re not from Orlais?” he teases, raising an eyebrow at her.

“I’m certain,” she giggles. She’s relieved that somehow he seems satisfied with her answer, even though he’s still frowning at her phone.

 

_I can tell him later. Maybe._

 

He sets her phone down and heaves a sigh, rubbing his neck as he looks around the tent. It’s gotten late, she can tell because of how quiet Haven is outside. They’ve been talking for so long, and yet she isn’t sure she wants to stop. Hearing his voice, actually being able to explain and communicate feels so welcome she wants to keep listening to him. However Cole managed to make things translate, she hears Cullen as if he’s speaking English, and she wonders if to him she’s speaking Common. His voice is so soothing, and exciting, and she wants to keep him talking.

“It’s late, I still have work to do,” he mutters and stands, stretching slightly before he moves the chair back behind his desk. She watches as he shuffles some reports, and when he sits and begins to bury himself in his work she pushes herself off the cot and approaches him.

“Cullen, why don’t you take your armor off,” she says, her voice timid. He looks uncomfortable, but the frown he shoots her makes her stop in her approach. “I just – you look uncomfortable, and it’s just you and I. I’ll help you hang it, I just – if you’re going to sit at your desk…”

She trails off when he just continues to stare at her. After a moment’s consideration he looks down at the reports in front of him and then sighs, rubbing his forehead with his hand.

“I suppose – I can do these in the morning. I’m exhausted,” he drops his hand and pushes himself out of the chair again. He walks around the desk to his armor stand, beginning to undo a few of the buckles. She stands watching him, wanting to offer to help but unsure after the frown he had given her. A few moments pass before he glances over his shoulder at her. “Can you help me with this?”

It’s somewhere between an order and a request, and she bites her lip and hurries forward to comply. Her fingers are trembling slightly as she tugs on the buckles and she isn’t sure why. They both work in silence, removing the many pieces of his armor and she helps him hang them carefully on their stand. She kneels in front of him to pull his boots off, and looks up to give him a small smile as she does so.

He’s staring down at her, an odd look in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he simply reaches down a hand and helps her to her feet once she’s removed his boots. He doesn’t immediately release her hand and she frowns up at him, realizing that he looks like he wants to say something.

A moment passes and they just stare at one another before he finally releases her hand and turns away from her. She realizes he’s giving her a chance to change like always, and she hurries to where she keeps the shirt she sleeps in. Stripping out of the clothes he purchased for her as quickly as she can, she pulls his shirt over her head and glances over her shoulder before she climbs into the cot.

He hears it creak and tentatively turns around, stripping out of his shirt as he picks up the spare blanket and begins to shake it out.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I’m – I’m going to sleep,” he frowns.

“You – Cullen, you don’t have to sleep on the floor. There’s plenty of room in the cot,” she shifts and pulls the blanket back.

“Celia, it’s not decent, I shouldn’t have ever -”

“Oh you are so stubborn,” she grits out and she pushes herself out of the cot, moving to stand before him and pulling the blanket out of his hands. “Fine, then you sleep on the cot and I’ll sleep on the floor -”

“No, you can’t sleep on the floor, you’re – that wouldn’t be decent either -”

“Why not?”

“You’re – you’re a lady, I can’t make you sleep on the floor. Take the cot, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not sleeping in the cot if you’re not.”

“Maker’s breath,” he groans and rubs his eyes with his hand. “I thought you would be easier to handle once I could understand you.”

She giggles. “I’m always a handful, you better get used to it.”

He lowers his hand and stares at her. “Why do you want me to sleep in the cot so badly?”

“I feel horrible kicking you out of it, especially because you need as much rest as you can get. But,” she chews her lip and looks away from him. “I – I hate sleeping alone.”

When he doesn’t answer right away she chances a glance up at him. He’s frowning at her, and after a moment he shakes his head as if exasperated. “Will it make you happy if I sleep in the cot with you?”

“Yes, very much so,” she smiles sweetly at him.

“I – fine, I will,” he concedes, and gestures for her to get back onto the cot.

She eagerly crawls back onto it, scooting aside so that he can join her. He reluctantly slides in beside her, and after he gets settled she lays against him and rests her head on his shoulder. It’s odd that even though they’ve been doing this for weeks, it suddenly feels different now that they can actually speak with one another.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she murmurs. “Good night.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then wraps one arm about her, his hand resting on her waist. “Good night, Cecilia,” he says softly, and the tender tone of his voice sends a thrill through her. Unable to resist, she nuzzles her nose against his chest and presses a delicate kiss to his hot skin, and his hand tightens its grip on her waist.

Neither of them says anything, even though they could, and instead they fall into silence. There’s a new tension in it, though, and Cecilia can tell she isn’t the only one who lays awake for a long time thinking before finally drifting off to sleep.


	14. Desire

_Her perfect lips are open in a smile, she’s kneeling in front of him after taking his boots off._

_All it would take is one word, one nod of her head, and he’d tell her what he wants her to do. Her smile is eager though, and suddenly he realizes she’ll do whatever he asks of her._

_“Celia, part your pretty lips for me.”_

_She licks them and does, and he groans as he watches them glisten. They’re so sweetly tempting, deep pink and so full he wants to nibble them, bite them until they’re fuller, swollen from his eager attentions._

_He’ll settle for seeing them around his cock first, and he reaches down to his breeches to undo them. She doesn’t hesitate when his erection bounces free. She leans forward and takes him between those plump pink lips of hers and he furrows his brows as he moans. He can’t tear his eyes from the sight of her sliding those lips along him and she_ moans _, the sound sending a shockwave of pleasure through him as he thrusts forward to go deeper. He’s close, and he wants to watch her suck him until he finds his release in between those delicious lips._

_“Celia, yes -”_

His eyes blink open and it takes him a moment to realize he’s awake. His arms are wrapped tight around someone, their sweet smelling hair against his lips since his face is pressed against the top of their head.

Celia, of course.

As soon as he realizes it, his stomach lurches abruptly because he’s realizing something else.

He’s hard, almost painfully so, and he has himself pressed between the round cheeks of her rear. His mouth goes dry, noticing that the shirt she wears is pushed up over her hips, and –

 

_Maker she isn’t wearing any smalls._

 

The only thing between them is his breeches, and he’s suddenly happy he always wears them to bed, despite how uncomfortable it is.

He remembers his dream and suddenly finds himself hoping against hope that he wasn’t talking in his sleep again or – Maker forbid – grinding himself against her.

She’s breathing deeply, and he feels almost certain she’s still asleep and hasn’t noticed the large bulge he has pressed tight against her.

He tries to fight a bitter laugh as he muses that at that moment, he’d take the nightmares over this.

He gingerly pulls away from her, trying not to wake her up so she doesn’t catch him in his current shameful state. Swinging his legs over the cot he sits for a moment and takes a deep breath. With a glare at the offending member, he attempts to focus his mind and get it back under control. When he closes his eyes, though, his mind conjures the image from his dream of her lips wrapped around his cock, her eyes looking up at him with enthusiastic lust.

 

_Like she was enjoying herself immensely, like she wanted to do it as much as he wanted her to._

 

A voice in the back of his mind urges him to wake her up and pull the shirt off of her, remembering how perfect the breast he’s glimpsed by accident is. But he shakes his head and mentally chides himself, trying to remind himself that he’s supposed to be her protector – and that he still can’t fully trust her.

He turns to look at her, his eyes eagerly taking in how sweet and delicate she looks in sleep. As angry as he first was, and despite the fact that he still isn’t sure how she knew about the mages and Templars, he can’t seem to find it in him to continue to doubt her.

Unable to resist the urge, he reaches over and brushes a few strands of hair off of her face. She stirs slightly and her eyes begin to flutter open, and he quickly removes his hand and stands, trying to tug at his breeches to hide the sight of him still half-hard and bulging.

“Cullen?” she sighs, and he glances over his shoulder to see her sleepily rubbing one eye. “Is it morning?”

“It – it is, yes,” he mutters, trying to keep his voice even.

“Mmmm,” she hums, still groggy and rubbing her eyes. He watches as she stretches and tries to wake herself up, unable to tear his eyes from how adorable she is in her sleepiness. “Are you hungry? I – I could get so-something for us to eat,” she says, stifling a yawn as she speaks.

“I – all right,” he agrees. “I need to finish those reports I didn’t do last night, that – that would be helpful, thank you.”

She smiles sweetly at him and finally sits up, blinking slowly. After a few more moments she slides out of the cot and stretches, causing the large shirt she’s wearing to fall off of her shoulder.

His cheeks heat with shame when he sees the green and blue bruises on her shoulder, and he recognizes that they’re fingerprints.

His fingerprints.

He closes the distance between them and she looks up at him, her brows furrowed as he stares down at the sight of the mars on her otherwise perfect skin.

“Is something wrong, Cul -”

“I’m so sorry,” he says, delicately running his fingers over the bruises. “I didn’t mean to hurt you Celia. Will you – will you forgive me?”

She’s still staring up at him, confused, until she finally glances down at where he’s gently stroking her shoulder. “Oh,” she murmurs, and he can tell she hadn’t realized until that moment that she was bruised. “It’s – it’s all right, Cullen. You don’t need to apologize. I know it was – it was my fault, coming in here and yelling at you like I did, I -”

“Celia, please – I shouldn’t have reacted like that. You shouldn’t be accepting responsibility for that, it wasn’t your fault,” he insists, still carefully brushing his fingers over her skin. He’s ashamed, and he can’t stop staring at where he hurt her. “Forgive me, I should have handled it better. I never want to hurt you, I -”

But he trails off and shakes his head, a jumble of emotions vying for his attention and rendering him unable to find the right words to express himself.

“I forgive you,” she tells him softly, stepping forward and placing a hand on his chest. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, please. It’s forgiven and forgotten.”

Her big honey brown eyes are almost shimmering, her neck craning as she tilts her face up to give him a reassuring smile. For a moment he can’t tear his gaze away from her smile as he suddenly realizes just how close she is, and his mind tries to encourage him to just lean down and kiss her.

Instead he clears his throat and steps back, finally removing his hand from her shoulder. “I – I’ll try not to, but – thank you, and I'm sorry, again, Celia,” he says. He turns away from her and walks to where he threw his shirt the night before and pulls it on, intending to finally get to the reports he’s ignored for long enough.

 

 

 

Giggles trickle in from outside, and he pauses in his work as he recognizes them. He glares up at the tent flaps when he hears a deep voice respond to the giggles, an odd feeling twisting his insides at the sound.

Cecilia went to get them food, and he realizes she’s been gone longer than he expected her to be. And now, she’s giggling outside, talking to someone. Someone with a deep baritone voice and a Starkhaven accent –

Scowling, he throws his quill down and stands, walking around the desk and out the tent in only a few strides. His cheeks clench when he sees her, and for a moment he simply glares.

Rylen is standing beside her, carrying the tray of food she had gone to fetch, and he’s smiling at her as he tells her some story or joke that Cullen can’t quite make out. She’s beaming at the man, and one hand reaches up to brush hair behind her ear as she replies to his story with more giggles.

He’s had enough.

“Celia, there you are,” he calls out, and he walks briskly forward to stand beside her. “What took you so long?”

“Oh, Cullen,” she turns her smile to him and giggles before she gestures at Rylen. “I got lost – I thought I followed your instructions but I got confused. Rylen was nice enough to help me find the kitchens, and he was just telling me about how he found me in the snow.”

“I see,” Cullen says, and he looks at his second for a moment before he takes the tray from him. “Thank you, Rylen. That will be all.”

“Uh – yes, Ser,” Rylen salutes hesitantly and then nods at Cecilia. “Until later, Lady Cecilia.”

She giggles and shakes her head as the other man walks away. “I’m sorry, I – the kitchens were harder to find than I thought.”

Cullen bites his tongue, fighting his sudden urge to chastise her for the way she was speaking to Rylen.

What's  gotten into him?

He sighs and turns to lead his way back into the tent. “It’s all right, I apologize if my directions were bad,” he tells her, and he’s glad to hear his voice isn’t strained. He’s still trying not to snap at her.

“They were probably perfect, I just got flustered. It happens, I’ve always been bad at following directions in a new place,” she sighs. They sit at his desk and he places the tray of food on it so that they can eat while he works. After several moments she frowns and swallows before she says, “Cullen, is there something I can do for you today? Do you need anything organized, or maybe – cleaned? I – I don’t want to just sit around, I want to help you out.”

He thinks for a moment and looks around the tent. It’s gotten slightly messier and more cramped now that they’re both staying in it, and he hasn’t been very good about keeping his reports organized. “I – some tidying would be welcome, yes. Here,” he hands her one of the reports, “can you read this?”

She takes it from him and looks it over, and then raises her gaze to his and nods. “I can, yes.”

He raises his eyebrows. “It seems whatever that – uh, Cole, did means you can translate written words as well.”

She hands the report back to him and smiles. “I was worried he only translated for you and I, it was nice to know I can talk to everyone. Rylen apologized for arresting me, he said -”

“Yes, I, um – we were all suspicious of everyone at the time, I’m afraid,” he interrupts, and looks away, embarrassed. He isn’t quite sure why he had to interrupt her story, just simply not wanting to hear her speak about what she had been giggling about with his second. Suddenly he realizes he wants to keep her to himself for the day, since he’ll be working on reports at his desk instead of on the training grounds. “Celia, if you could – stay here and help me organize and sort reports today, I’d appreciate the help.”

Her brows are a little furrowed, like she’s wondering why he interrupted her and changed the subject. But after a moment she smiles and nods. “Of course, I’d love to help.”

Halfway through the day he wonders what he was thinking, keeping her close under his observation like this. She’s moving around the tent in just her leather breeches and tight dark grey shirt, and he finds his gaze wandering from his reports to follow her movements more and more frequently. He continually has to shake his head as if to clear it and force himself to refocus on his reports, but after only a few minutes he finds himself watching her again.

When he glances up to see her bent over his trunk, her rear in the air, he nearly chokes and has to hide the strangled noise he makes in a cough. She turns around and raises an eyebrow.

“Are you all right, Cullen? Do you need some water?” she walks over and stands beside him, pressing a hand to his forehead before she brushes some stray hair aside. “You’re burning up, I think you have a fever.”

“I usually do,” he mutters, and tries to ignore the feeling of her soft fingers on his skin. “W-water would be nice, thank you.”

She smiles and walks over to the fresh water basin they keep in the tent, and fills a cup with some. “At least it’s always nice and cool,” she muses softly. “Here. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you,” he takes the water from her and drains it in one gulp. “Can you – here, I need these reports organized, do you mind?” He gestures at the chair across from him and she smiles before she takes her seat. He spends a moment showing her where to find the date on the report, and then asks her to sort them from oldest to newest.

They fall into comfortable silence, but he’s still distracted and looking up at her sitting across from him every few moments. She’s focusing on her task, and eventually she begins to sing softly under her breath to herself.

“ _A year from now, we’ll all be gone, all our friends will move away. And they’re going to better places, but our friends will be gone away. Nothing is as it has been, and I miss your face like hell. And I guess it’s just as well, but I miss your face like hell_ ,” she sings, and her voice is sweet, angelic.

It takes him a moment to recognize it, now that he understands the words, but it’s the same song she was singing the night that she was drunk. He pauses in his writing, listening to her sing a few soft, melodic _“oh’s”_ as she shuffles reports.

“ _Been talkin’ ‘bout the way things change. And my family lives in a different state. And if you don’t know what to make of it, then we will not relate. So if you don’t know what to make of it, then we will not relate_.” She trails off and hums the rest, and he looks up to see her bobbing her head a bit as she works. Something has changed in her eyes, though, and she almost looks sad again.

“That’s – that’s a pretty song,” he says, wanting to try to make her smile.

She snaps her head up to look at him, and after a moment she giggles a little like she’s embarrassed. “Sorry, it’s stuck in my head, I didn’t mean to bother you -”

“No, no you didn’t,” he hurries to assure her. “Your voice is beautiful. Did you – did you have a tutor when you were younger?”

She shakes her head and smiles softly. His heart soars at the sight. “No, I just – I just sing. I was never taught how.”

“You have a gift, then,” he responds with his own smile, and notices how her gaze shifts to the corner of his mouth, the one with the scar. He furrows his brows and looks down, suddenly self-conscious.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she murmurs, and he smiles down at the report he’s trying and failing to focus on.

They pass the rest of the afternoon and evening in quiet companionship, still so comfortable in silence together after how long they were unable to communicate. After they sup together he stands and stretches, realizing he needs to head to a war council. He decides not to put his armor on, instead walking over with just the reports that he needs as he hums a little to himself.

The war council is short, since there isn’t much to do besides collect the news from the scouts reporting in from their various locations. As he strolls back to his tent he realizes he could use a bath, and hurries back to get his towel and soap.

Cecilia isn’t in the tent, but he shrugs and decides that she likely stepped out to relieve herself. He makes his way back through Haven to the bathhouses, wondering a bit why he isn’t more concerned about her whereabouts. As much as he wants to be suspicious, he still can’t be. Something about her is just so open, and vulnerable, and he finds it hard to believe she could have ulterior motives, even if he can tell she’s still hiding some things from him.

He reaches the bathhouse and hears the sound of water sloshing against a tub and groans. Bathing is some of the only time he gets to himself, and he hates when he has to share the bathhouse. He peers around the doorway, trying to determine who it is and whether he should try to come back later.

Instead he finds himself riveted to the spot, his eyes wide and his mouth suddenly dry.

Cecilia is in the bath, facing the door, her long dark hair piled on her head in a mess of gleaming strands. She’s resting her head back on the edge of the tub, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. Her back arches slightly as if she’s stretching, and his eyes fixate on the glistening pale orbs she’s thrusting up out of the water. They’re perfect, round and perky and definitely more than a handful, and the rosy pink peaks of each is stiff, hardened as if she’s excited.

He flicks his tongue out to try to alleviate the dryness in his lips, his brain trying to tell him to leave and stay at the same time, leaving him rooted in indecision. He simply stares, unable to take his eyes off of her, and then suddenly she _moans_.

One of her pale legs pulls out of the water and hooks over the edge of the tub, and he suddenly realizes why the water is rippling and distorting the view of the rest of her.

One of her hands is between her legs, moving in a steady rhythm as she pleasures herself, and he can tell she’s rolling her hips as she moans again. She bites her bottom lip and lets out a whimper that almost sounds like a name, but all he can make out is the last syllable, _“len.”_

She begins to fall apart, her whole body shuddering as she gasps and arches out of the water. Again she tries to stifle the whispered pant of a name, and again all he can hear is _“len.”_

 

_Rylen? Or – surely she doesn’t mean -_

 

He scowls, his insides twisting, and he feels his cheeks heat as shame washes over him. He backs away as quietly as he can, trying to decide what’s making him angriest at the moment. Is it the fact that he had just stood there and watched as she touched herself, like an immoral lecher? Or is it his sneaking suspicion about who she was thinking about?

Or worse, is it the fact that he wanted her to be saying _his_ name?

He turns and hurries to his tent, long strides carrying him away from the tempting siren he had spied on. He throws his towel and soap aside before he grabs his sword, but he doesn’t bother with his armor. Charging through Haven to the training grounds he finds he doesn’t much care about the late hour or the stares he’s getting as he glowers at every recruit he passes.

He just has a sudden, overwhelming urge to hit something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally seeing a romantic interest naked is one of my favorite tropes and you can pry it from my cold, dead hands mwuahahaha


	15. Realities

The air is cold and biting as she walks back to the tent, but her cheeks are flushed and warm even though her hair is dripping wet hanging down her back. Her legs are a little shaky, and she bites her lip as she thinks about how desperately she touched herself and made herself come. It’s like now that she’s heard his voice and understood it, she feels even more drawn to him.

She never thought he’d be real and now here he is, flesh and blood, holding her when she sleeps and occasionally smiling at her in a way that makes her heart race. Every time he says her name, she almost feels faint.

 

_There’s no way Cullen motherfucking Rutherford wants me. I’m soft, and annoying, and so full of anxiety I couldn’t even find my way to the kitchens without panicking and getting flustered._

 

She remembers the way Rylen had taken pity on her when he saw how lost she looked, and how he had tried to mime until she finally spoke and explained that she could understand him now. He had laughed, and once he knew what she was looking for had immediately escorted her there. He’d even helped her pick out the right foods when things were unfamiliar and locate everything Cullen usually ate for breakfast. He was kind and helpful, and easy to get along with. She had realized as they spoke that if she was stuck here in Thedas, at least she had the potential to make friends with characters she had once admired as she played a video game on Earth.

Cecilia reaches the tent and is surprised that Cullen isn’t there, and figures that his war council must still be ongoing. She hangs her towel and changes into the shirt she wears to sleep in before she takes her place in the middle of the cot. When he bought her clothes she hadn’t thought to try to ask him to help buy her some simple necessities, and so she sits with her legs tucked under her and finger combs her long wet hair. Maybe once they sell her ring, she can buy a comb and other items she needs. As she works on her tangles she hums a little to herself, and remembers the look on his face when he had caught her singing that day.

It still makes her wonder if maybe he could like her, considering the soft smile he’d given her.

She feels full of herself every time she thinks that. It’s like thinking the popular high school quarterback could like her because he asked to copy her homework or borrow a pencil, even though normally he won’t give her the time of day.

Her musings are interrupted when the tent flaps fly open and Cullen strides in. He’s drenched from head to toe, a few stray curls hanging over his forehead and dripping onto his face. Even his clothes are wet and clinging to him, and her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of every inch of him being emphasized by the wet material. He’s carrying his sword in its scabbard, and when he walks in he looks up to see her and positively _glowers_.

“Cullen are you – are you all right? You’re all wet, and – why do you have your sword? Is something wrong?” She sits forward on her knees and stares at him, wondering why he’s slamming his sword down and peeling off his shirt and tossing it aside as if he’s furious about something.

“I went for a swim,” he says gruffly.

“A – a swim? With your sword? Where?”

He scowls at her and turns back around, running a hand through his hair before he shakes it out and sends droplets of water flying. “Part of the lake that wasn’t covered with ice.”

“You went swimming – in the lake?” she laughs, shocked. “Cullen, it’s freezing, you’re going to catch your death -”

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

She pushes herself off the cot and grabs one of the towels, walking forward and clucking her tongue softly. “Here, dry yourself off, it’s too cold to stay as wet as you are.”

“I’m fine,” he grits out again and tries to refuse the towel she’s pushing into his hands.

“Cullen, please, just take it,” she sighs.

“No, Celia, I’m -”

“ _Fine_ – yeah, yeah, yeah,” she rolls her eyes. “God you’re more difficult than I am. What’s gotten into you?”

“Your constant nagging, that’s what,” he growls and finally takes the towel she’s pushing insistently into his chest. “Damn it, woman, would you just leave me be?”

She steps back from him, her eyebrows raised as she folds her arms across her chest. For a moment they simply glare at one another, and then she finally lifts her nose in the air and turns away from him to resume her place on the cot.

She’s hurt, and trying to figure out what could have caused the change. When he had left for the war council, he had smiled at her, he had said he would be back soon like he was looking forward to it. Now he’s scowling, his mood so black it’s like she can see a cartoon storm cloud hanging over his head.

 

_Lyrium withdrawal._

 

The realization comes upon her as she resumes combing her damp hair with her fingers. She begins to think hard, trying to figure out what she can do to help ease his troubles. The closest she’s come to withdrawal are the weeks she would randomly try to quit caffeine and stop drinking coffee ‘for her health.’ She’s had headaches almost the whole time she’s been here in Thedas, since she hasn’t been able to fulfill her usual three cup habit of coffee. But she knows her caffeine headaches must be nothing compared to withdrawal from lyrium.

She thinks over the lore she remembers from the game and what happens with his storyline. She even tries to wrack her brain from the few weeks she spent delving into Dragon Age and Cullen fan fiction on the internet, wondering if anything she remembers might hold a helpful hint or useful idea. She’s amazed he hasn’t shown many signs of it yet besides seeming like he doesn’t sleep well and having a fever, and she finds herself wondering how long it’s been since Kirkwall. She realizes she has no idea what year it actually is, no way of comprehending the timeline, and she isn’t quite sure how to ask.

It will only make him more suspicious of her.

And then she looks up at him and realizes – if things don’t go just right, if the Inquisitor doesn’t believe in him, if he encourages him to go back on lyrium – Cullen will die. Or at least, that’s what one of the many epilogues hinted at, she recalls with dread.

Vaguely she wonders if her support and encouragement will matter to him at all despite what anyone else says. She resolves to try her best, determined to support him in everything he tries to do.

Even right now, when he’s being a brusque ass to her.

He’s finished rubbing his head with the towel and he throws it aside, still seeming thoroughly irritated. Something has changed, though, and she catches him looking as if he’s trying to shoot furtive glances her way. He almost looks sheepish, embarrassed, or ashamed.

She’s combed her hair as well as she can, and she begins to braid it. What she wouldn’t give for dry shampoo, or a hair dryer. She misses simple things she used to take for granted, like styling sprays to make her straight hair fuller and not quite so lank after it dries. She misses conditioner, since without it her silky hair is a static-y disaster. She misses lotion, because her elbows and hands are incredibly dry and almost painful. Even toothpaste is starting to seem like the most wonderful luxury in the world, though Cullen had shown her how they clean their teeth in Thedas.

Honestly, it only made her miss toothpaste more.

She misses music, too, and she glances at Cullen when she gets an idea. He’d liked it when she sang earlier, and she wonders a bit if her singing would calm him down. She mulls over her options for a bit, trying to decide which song she knows well enough to sing at the moment. Plenty are memorized and ready for her to sing, but she wants a soothing one, or one that’s a bit sweet, since she can’t help but want to plant the idea that she _wants_ him.

She settles on one finally and begins to sing softly under her breath as she combs her hair and he moves around the tent with irritation evident in everything he does.

 

“ _We’ll sit on the front porch, the sun can warm my feet. You can drink your coffee with sugar and cream, I’ll drink my decaf herbal tea. Pretend we’re perfect strangers and that we never met. My you remind me of a man I used to sleep with, that’s a face I’d never forget. And you can be Henry Miller and I’ll be Anaïs Nin, except this time it’ll be even better, we’ll stay together in the end. Come on darlin’, let’s go back to bed_.”

 

She notices as she sings and carefully braids her hair that his shoulders seem to loosen; he no longer seems as tense. He glances over his shoulder to look at her after a few moments, and she gives him a reassuring smile and continues her singing. As she ties off her braid with the hair tie she luckily had on her wrist when she came to Thedas, he heaves a sigh and suddenly moves over to stand beside the cot.

“You – your songs are beautiful,” he says after a moment. “Did you write them?”

She giggles and shakes her head. “No, I just listened to a lot of, um, bards,” she frowns, again trying to ignore how funny some of the ways she has to describe things are. “Change out of your pants, Cullen, and let’s go to sleep.”

He stares at her for a moment and then nods his head as if he suddenly realizes she’s right. She almost wonders if he even recognizes that his pants are wet. He walks over to his trunk and opens it to pull out a dry pair of cotton trousers, and she lowers her gaze and clears her throat when he begins to strip.

 

_Just look, he’s right there, he doesn’t seem like he cares –_

 

She tries to resist the urge but she looks up to see if he’s done changing, and instead sees him in all his glory as he shakes out the fresh breeches to put on.

Her heart races and she bites her lower lip as she takes in the sight of him, his perfectly round and muscular ass, his thick, strong thighs. And then when he turns slightly the outline of his beautiful cock, making her heart race even faster when she realizes it almost looks like it’s a little hard.

 

_Please tell me it’s because of me. Tell me that Cullen Rutherford wants me, that he was thinking about me and wants to tear my clothes off._

 

“I -”

Her eyes widen when she realizes he’s facing and staring at her, the breeches hanging forgotten in his hands. Feeling her cheeks heat and her stomach lurch she buries her face in her hands and groans. “I’m so sorry, I -” she chokes out, feeling so mortified she wants to sink into the ground and disappear. “I was just looking to see if you were done, I didn’t mean -”

Her voice is a squeak, pathetic and even more embarrassing as she digs her palms into her eyes.

“It’s – it’s all right, Celia, I – honestly, I’m amazed it took us this long, considering the close quarters we've been sharing,” he says. He almost sounds like he’s laughing, and she chances a peek up at him through her fingers. He’s grinning at her, the corner of his mouth tugging up in such a tantalizing smile she wants to strip her shirt off and beg him to use her however he sees fit.

“Right,” she gasps instead. “Anyway, I – I’m sorry. I’ll just, um…”

And she flops over in the cot and buries her face in the pillow, her heart racing uncomfortably.

She can’t tell which is worse, the fact that he caught her ogling him or the smile he gave her when he reassured her.

He busies himself around the tent for a little bit, almost seeming as if he’s trying to wait for her to fall asleep before he joins her. But her embarrassment is keeping her awake, and she lays still in the cot with her face pressed into the pillow as she chews her lip and ruminates on the mortification she feels.

Eventually he seems to decide she’s asleep, and he climbs quietly into the cot, moving slowly so that he doesn’t disturb her. Once he’s beside her, though, he wraps his arms around her and curls himself securely against her back. He’s almost holding her more tightly than normal, and as he gets settled she feels him press his lips against the back of her head as he snuggles her to his chest.

She doesn’t dare to move or let him know she felt it, instead she continues to feign sleep.

Frankly, she has no idea what to make of any of it, and she worries she’s thinking too much into it.

 

 

 

Cecilia stands outside of the tent, her arms folded and her brows furrowed as she watches the lines of Templars file into Haven. Cullen is further along near the gate, speaking with the Herald and Cassandra. Rylen is pacing nearby, though, and when he sees her he nods but stays focused on his duties.

She’s fine with that. Her heart is pounding, her hands shaking slightly, and she knows she’d be horrible company right now.

If the Templars are arriving, that means soon they’ll assault the Breach with the Herald.

And once they do that…

She looks around Haven, all of her knowledge crashing back into the forefront of her mind. She’s impressed with how long she’s put off thinking about what happens at Haven, what happens to the Inquisition. Cullen has been here, he’s been smiling at her and almost flirting with her – and she’s forgotten just how much danger she’s in. How much danger they’re all in.

Thoughts chase each other through her mind, and she’s torn between trying to warn them all and realizing that that’s a surefire way to get Cullen to distrust her even more.

She has no idea what to do.

So instead, she stands and watches the Templars enter Haven, trying to fight the frustrated tears threatening to escape her eyes.

She feels like a coward as she considers not saying anything and just letting events unfold.

 _“You!”_ a voice cries out.

Cecilia turns and frowns, confused who’s shouting and at whom. When she sees someone rushing toward her, she opens her mouth and takes several steps back.

The man she slapped weeks ago is charging toward her, looking furious. “You – _witch_ – _mage whore_! You cursed me! I demand that you undo it, you bitch!”

“I – what? I’m not – no, I didn’t -” she stutters, and she keeps her arms crossed in front of her chest defensively. “I’m not a mage, I don’t have magic, and I _certainly_ didn’t curse you -”

“You did! You shouted those strange words at me, and ever since then my life has fallen apart!” he roars, taking a few menacing steps toward her.

“I did not!” she cries. “And maybe your life is falling apart because you’re a shithead, because you do things like hit good men who are trying to defend others from your hatred -”

“Shut up, mage whore -” the man cries, and he raises an arm.

Cecilia freezes. The fearlessness she had felt when she slapped him is gone, now that she’s finally come to terms with the fact that she really is in Thedas. Reality has set in since that day and she no longer thinks she’s invincible. She can’t get herself to raise any sort of defense for herself. Instead she just stands there staring at him wide-eyed and terrified.

Someone charges from the side and hits the man, and Cecilia stumbles back as she watches the scuffle that ensues.

It isn’t who she thought.

Rylen wrestles the man to the ground, shouting for him to calm himself and leave her alone. She catches him yell the phrase “defenseless lady” in the midst of his loud reproaches and she isn’t certain if she should be insulted or flattered.

Footsteps sound from behind her and two more men enter the fray, and it only takes her a moment to recognize them.

Cullen throws himself into the fight without a second thought, and behind him the Herald charges in as well, though he seems slightly more hesitant.

“Maker – what is the meaning of this?” Cassandra runs to stand beside Cecilia, and they watch as the three men wrestle Cecilia’s would-be attacker until he's no longer thrashing or fighting them off.

“How dare you -” Cullen grits out.

“Attacking a woman under the protection of the Inquisition -” the Herald growls.

“Despicable,” Rylen declares.

After a moment, Cecilia almost wants to laugh. Her nerves are so fraught she’s shaking like a leaf, but there’s something comical about the sight of the three men who rushed to _her_ defense, of all people.

She watches as her defenders drag the man to his feet, and several soldiers seem to materialize out of thin air to escort him off. All three men turn to face her, concern on all of their features.

“Celia,” Cullen says and he steps forward. “Are – are you all right?”

“I’m -”

“I stopped him before he could attack her, Commander,” Rylen interjects, standing straighter than normal and clasping his hands behind his back.

“Good, Knight-Captain Rylen, how lucky you were here -” the Herald begins to say.

“Yes, well, I would have been -” Cullen begins, frowning at the Herald.

“I’m fine, really -”

“I was happy to help -”

“What a despicable man, attacking a lady -”

“Celia, did he hurt -”

They’re all talking over each other and over her, and she folds her arms again and shakes her head as she watches them. She’s still shaking, still picturing how close the man had gotten to her, how much larger than her he was. But watching the three men before her almost jutting their chests out as they speak loudly over one another makes her roll her eyes.

“Yes, thank you,” she says loudly after a few moments. “I appreciate it, all of you,” she continues when they finally quiet and all look at her.

“Celia -”

“My lady -”

“Lady Cecilia -”

Beside her Cassandra snickers.

“I’m – I think I’m going to lie down, for a bit,” she sighs, exasperated.

They all nod eagerly and begin to speak at the same time about how that’s probably best.

She fights the urge to roll her eyes back into her skull until they get stuck in that position.

Quickly turning and walking away from them, she hurries into the tent and makes certain the flaps close behind her. She heaves a sigh and flings herself on the cot, throwing an arm over her eyes.

Strangely, she’s not so upset about the man yelling at her. After all, she did slap him, and she knew it had to hurt because of how many days her hand had ached afterwards.

Instead, she keeps thinking about the arrival of the Templars.

They’ll assault the Breach.

Corypheus will come, with the mages.

Haven will be destroyed.

And as much as she hopes that everything plays out the way it does in the game she played, she can’t be certain.

She can’t be certain, least of all, that she survives.

She pictures Cullen smiling at her and feels a twinge of fear.

More than ever, she wants to survive, but she isn’t certain she will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Cecilia was singing to Cullen:
> 
>  
> 
> ["Morning Song" by Jewel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Av_JE-_-F9s)


	16. Bad Timing

“Celia, are you – what’s wrong?” he frowns as he watches her approach, noticing the way she’s wringing her hands. She looks timid, nervous – and he’s wondering if the man trying to attack her still has her rattled. She hasn’t left the tent since, and it was hours ago.

“Can I speak with you?” she asks, and the imploring look in her honey eyes tugs at something in him. It looks like fear.

“Of course,” he steps away from the scout he was standing beside and leads her further along the path. “Is something the matter?”

“I – um,” she folds her arms over her chest and kicks her boot in the snow. “Are – are you assaulting the Breach, soon?”

“Yes, we’re just about to leave,” he takes a step toward her, noticing the way she’s holding her arms so tightly to herself. “What is it? Did that man – did he say something? He can’t hurt you, it’s all right now -”

“No, it’s not that,” she shakes her head and looks around. She isn’t looking at him, and he wonders if he did something wrong. “Cullen, I – I have a bad feeling about – this.”

“You have a -” he stares at her, still frowning. “About what?”

“About the Breach, um – something just feels wrong. I think – I think -” she trails off and bites her lip, still staring at the ground. “I can’t explain it. I think something is going to go wrong, I think you um – oh damn it. I can’t tell you why.”

“Celia, you aren’t making any sense,” he resists the urge to laugh in his bewilderment. “Everything is going to be fine, the Templars will be able to support the Herald. We’ll close the Breach, you don’t need to worry -”

“No, Cullen, please. After, something – I feel like something’s going to go wrong. After you do,” she’s chewing her lip but finally raises her gaze to his. She’s terrified, he can tell, but he has no idea why. “Please, Cullen -”

“It’s going to be fine,” he reaches out and places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Just stay here, and everything will be all right. I promise.”

“Commander!”

Cullen turns at the shout and sees Rylen waving at him, beckoning him over. “I need to go, Celia. Stay here, I’ll see you when I get back. You’ll see, everything will be all right.”

He hurries away from her, but looks back before he leaves Haven. She’s still standing there, watching him go, and he frowns to himself as he thinks about how scared she was. But he shakes his head and follows their forces to the Breach.

  

 

 

“You did an excellent job,” Cullen claps the young Herald on the shoulder.

“It was the mark,” the Herald sighs and shakes his head. “Without it, I’m just a Templar, I’m not -”

“You united people, you’ve made decisions when they needed to be made,” Cullen tells him. “You’re doing plenty, Herald. Now go relax and join the celebrations, our work can continue tomorrow.”

The Herald nods and walks away to join Varric beside one of the many fires. Haven is full of shouts and music, sounds of carefree revelry drifting through the entire village. Everyone is dancing, drinking, grateful and victorious.

Cullen walks through the crowds, intending to find his tent and some solitude. Or at least partial solitude, since Celia will likely be there. He wonders if he should encourage her to go celebrate, or if it would be worth having a drink if she would go with him.

He’s not one for raucous celebrations, even though he’s glad they actually have something worth celebrating. He stops when he sees Cecilia standing outside of the tent, chewing on her thumb nervously as she takes in the revelries.

“Celia,” he calls, and her head snaps to look at him, her eyes still wide. “Are you all right, now? The Breach is closed, we were successful.”

She stares up at him, her brows furrowed in a deep frown. “Cullen, I – um,” she takes a few steps forward until she’s standing right in front of him. “I just wanted to say – thank you. For everything. You’ve been really sweet to me, and kind, and I just – it’s meant everything to me. Thank you, truly.”

He frowns, searching her face for any answer or hint at the meaning behind her words. “I – you’re welcome. But what’s – what’s gotten into you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I just wanted to make sure you knew how much you – how much your kindness has meant to me,” she cranes her neck, taking another small step forward until she’s almost standing against his armored chest. Her beautiful honey eyes are mesmerizing, and he doesn’t want to look away.

“Celia, I -”

She has her hands in the fur of his mantle, and she stands on tiptoe as she tries to pull him down to her.  A voice in his head tells him to step away but he stays rooted to the spot and instead places his hands on her waist, pulling her closer against him. He leans down, his heart racing, but all he can see are her brown eyes and her full lips parting slightly, and he wants to taste them, he wants to feel them. She slides an arm around his neck, and he can feel her breath mingling with his against his lips –

Alarm bells rend the air and the shouts of celebration suddenly turn to shouts of terror, screams piercing the air.

Cullen jerks his head away, looking around. “What’s -”

“Go, Cullen,” Cecilia releases him and steps back. Her voice is trembling, and he looks down at her to see her eyes filling with tears.

“Stay here, stay inside, I’ll – I’ll be back,” he charges off, his heart still pounding only now it’s adrenaline coursing through him as he draws his sword and heads for the gates.

 

* * *

 

Cecilia watches him charge away from her, drawing his sword, but as soon as he’s out of sight she hurries back into the tent. The satchel she packed is on the cot, and she slings it over her shoulder. She grabs the bottle of whiskey from where she’d left it on the desk and quickly takes another swig to steady her nerves.

 

_I’m not dying without getting to finally kiss Cullen, that’s for damn sure._

 

They had been so close, he had been leaning down, and his hands had been on her waist as he pulled her to him –

 

_No, fuck this. Not dying today. Not now that I’m positive he wanted to kiss me too._

 

She takes one more large gulp of whiskey and sets the bottle down before she takes a last look around the tent.

 

_Cloak – check._

_Blanket – check._

_Phone – 85% battery, check._

_Lip balm – almost empty but packed._

_Spare clothes – check._

_Ring – still need to sell it, check._

_Lighter – we’ll need it, check._

_Cigarettes – ten left, check._

_Dagger – check._

The last item is tied to her belt. She’d found it earlier when she tore the tent apart searching for anything and everything they may need. It's his, but she knows that he won’t be bothered that she’s taking it with her.

He told her to stay, but she knows that soon all of Haven will be burning. She shakes her hands out, trying to fight the way they’re trembling as she takes a deep breath. It’s already happening, the fogginess that fills her brain when she’s panicking, and she takes more deep breaths to steady herself. She counts to ten, slowly. Still foggy, still feeling disconnected from herself and what’s happening, unable to focus.

She’s never been more terrified, the feeling surpassing every moment of fear and panic she had ever experienced on Earth. Suddenly she finds herself wishing to be facing hundreds of school presentations and thousands of dignitaries simultaneously instead.

But she isn’t, she’s here in Thedas, about to face the Battle of Haven.

She counts to ten again, trying to fight the tears threatening to blur her vision.

 

_Stop, stop. It’s going to be okay. You know how to survive this. You have to. He was going to kiss you. He’s going to need you, because it only gets harder from here._

_You can do this._

_You didn’t end up in Thedas just to die at Haven without kissing Cullen Rutherford._

 

She smirks a little to herself at that last thought, and feels the tears she was fighting start to recede. One final deep breath and she slowly begins to cross the tent.

Something glints and catches her eye and she realizes his shield is propped beside his armor stand.

 

 _Shit, he’s out there without his shield_.

 

And just like that, she rushes forward, no longer struggling to make herself flee the tent. He needs his shield, he needs its protection, the way it will be able to deflect the mages’ magic. She lifts it with a groan, realizing she had no idea just how heavy it is.

 

_No wonder his arms are so large._

 

Staggering slightly under its weight, she walks briskly out of the tent and looks around. Everyone is fleeing, trying to get to the Chantry. The sound of battle in the distance is growing louder, but they don’t seem to have made it through the gate yet.

She rushes forward, going as fast as she can with the shield in her arms. It’s difficult, moving against the flow of people scurrying away in a panic, but eventually she makes it to the gate. Cullen is standing just outside of it, trying to ensure people get inside, defending them as they flee. She pushes forward, waiting until he’s not engaged in battle before she hurries to his side.

“Cullen, your shield -”

“Maker’s breath – Celia, I told you to stay, we’re under attack -”

“Just take your damn shield!”

She thrusts it into his arms, and she can tell he’s grateful for it even though he looks angry.

Or maybe he’s just in his warrior battle mode, it’s hard for her to tell.

“GO Celia -”

“I’m going, I’m going,” she turns to join the crowd fleeing to the Chantry when everything around them erupts with deafening sound and falling debris.

A horrible _roar_ , a noise she’s never heard the likes of sounds from above, and she looks up to the sky with horror.

 

_That’s a fucking Archdemon._

_A dragon._

_There, in the sky._

 

Her heart is beating so fast she’s certain it’s going to explode out of her chest, and for a moment her mind seizes up in terror and she temporarily blacks out.

A hand has a hold of her upper arm and is dragging her behind someone, and it takes her a moment to realize that it’s Cullen. He’s sheathed his sword and is pulling her behind him, his shield in his other hand.

He’s calling for everyone to retreat, telling them to get to the Chantry. His words are familiar, like she could predict them before he says them.

His words, his speech. She knows this one almost by heart.

 

 _At this point, just make them work for it_.

 

The Herald and his companions rush by them and Cullen releases her to help close the gate.

“Celia, with me -” he grabs her again and they run through Haven.

It’s on fire, she can hear screams.

Blood is staining the snow, charred bodies and body parts are scattered everywhere.

She feels faint, and stumbles, but doesn’t fall because of the tight grip Cullen has on her.

Shouts come from around the corner and Cullen releases her, drawing his sword. The Herald and his companions rush forward and Cullen follows. Cecilia steps back and tries to hide in the shadows of the walls beside her as she watches them collide in battle with Venatori.

Her heart is hammering her rib cage as she watches Cullen fight, terror that he could be injured or fall in battle filling her mind. But he’s a fierce sight to behold, and even through her fear she feels herself impressed by how powerful he is.

Then in an instant, everything is just agonizing pain and she screams, falling to her knees.

Venatori are charging from behind them, and she hadn’t seen them. At her scream Cullen turns around and he and several of the Herald’s companions rush to engage their new attackers. Someone grabs her by her arm and pulls her to her feet, trying to move her away from the battle. Pain is tearing through her shoulder and chest, and she looks down to see a large spike of glowing ice lodged in her shoulder. Her collarbone feels broken, and her vision is going white from the pain. She can’t stop sobbing, feeling nothing but throbbing, unbearable agony coursing through her.

“I’ve got her, here -”

“To the Chantry, now -”

“I can heal it -”

“Once we’re inside, come on.”

Someone lifts her and she can hear a deep voice shouting, but she can’t focus on anything but the pain. She feels cold and hot, and wet. When she chances another look, she can tell that she’s covered in blood.

And also that the person carrying her is _large_ , and shirtless.

Delirious giggles begin to escape in between her whimpers of pain.

 

 _I’m being rushed to safety by The Iron Bull_.

 

“She’s losing a lot of blood,” a baritone voice calls to someone.

“Yes, if you’d just let me heal it -” a strangely accented voice snaps, and she realizes she recognizes it too.

 

_Dorian?_

 

“We’re almost there.”

She’s jostled in Bull’s arms as he runs, and soon she can see a vaulted ceiling above her instead of stars and smoke and she realizes they’ve reached the Chantry.

“Put her here, let me see – I can heal it,” Dorian directs Bull, and Cecilia feels herself propped against the stone wall. Dorian kneels in front of her and places his hand on the ice spike, and it heats, his hand gently emanating fire to melt it. Warm water mingles with the blood she’s soaked in until not an inch of her is dry any longer, covered in melted magic ice and her own blood.

Once the ice is gone Dorian places his hand on her wound, and green healing magic glows and lights his face.

 

 _He kind of looks like his tarot card with that lighting_.

 

She feels loopy, weak, giggling at her thoughts but feeling confused as well. The healing magic flows through her, hot and soothing like a massage, and just as when Adan had healed her head she wants to curl up like a contented cat and just  _savor_ the sensations of the magic.

“Well, it’s healed but she still lost a lot of blood,” Dorian sighs as he removes his hand. “There’s not anything I can do about that.”

“Try blood magic,” Bull suggests, and Dorian chuckles but turns around, exasperated.

“Just because I’m from Tevinter -”

“Isn’t that what you do? Plus she’s lost blood, I just figured that was the easiest solution.”

Cecilia giggles uncontrollably, still loopy and weak but unable to help it.

 

 _Try blood magic_.

 

Dorian turns back to look at her, one of his eyebrows raised. “Hmm, seems she shares your sense of humor,” he muses. “Either that or she’s not right in the head.”

“Or she lost a lot of blood.”

Dorian shrugs and stands. “That too.”

The Chantry doors burst open and the Herald and his companions finally hurry in, and Cecilia lifts her head to see them enter. “Cullen – where’s Cullen -”

But just as she says it he runs inside and they shut and bar the door behind him. He looks around wildly and spots her sitting against the wall. In a few long strides he’s beside her and throws himself to his knees, taking in the sight of her covered in blood.

“Celia – you’re – Maker -” he splutters, his hands moving aside her bloody shirt to inspect the damage.

“She’s healed but weak, she lost a lot of blood, as you can see,” Dorian tells him.

“Cullen,” she whispers and raises her fingers to brush along his cheek. “I’ll be all – all right. You need to get everyone out of here.”

“I – Celia, I -” he seems like he wants to say something, but he hesitates as his eyes continue to wander over her.

“Go, Commander, I’ll be all right,” she murmurs, and traces the scar at the corner of his lip with the tip of her finger.

He grabs the hand she has tracing his scar and for a moment holds it as he stares at her. Then he presses her fingertips to his lips and releases her hand, pushing himself to his feet and walking briskly away to speak with the Herald.

Her eyes droop, and darkness falls for a time.

 

“Celia – Celia, wake up,” a deep voice is saying, and fingers gently tap her cheek. “Wake up, we need to go.”

She opens her eyes and sees amber and gold right before her, and when she blinks she realizes Cullen is kneeling in front of her.

“Come on, we need to go,” he urges her, and he places his hands under her arms and lifts her to her feet. When she sways he tightens his hold on her. “Can you walk? I need you to walk. We’re fleeing, we’re leaving – we have to go _now_.”

“I – I can walk,” she says, but when she tries to take a few steps she staggers and sways. “I’ll – I can, I’ll be fine.”

He puts an arm around her and guides her through the Chantry, shouting commands as he supports her. She wraps an arm around his waist, clinging tightly to him as she struggles forward.

 

_Not dying today. Fuck you Corypheus. I’m going to make it._

 

She repeats insults to Corypheus and his Archdemon in her head as motivation, thinking too about the way Cullen had kissed her fingertips. She remembers the way they had gotten so close to kissing before the attack, and every time she pictures it she walks a little faster.

 

_You can’t die in Thedas without at least kissing him._

_Come on Cecilia, you can do it._

They’re out in the snow, and it’s freezing, the wind biting through her and making her shiver. She’s still wet, and it’s beginning to feel like her soaked clothes are hardening into ice, freezing in the blizzard around them.

But still she pushes herself, clinging to Cullen tightly as he tries to steady her through the knee-deep snow. Occasionally he mutters words of encouragement, and sometimes he only says her name.

She’s hardly aware of anything but the cold and the feeling of him walking beside her, her mind blank of thought except for the strong, insatiable urge to keep moving forward.

And finally, they’re above the tree line.

“Send the signal,” Cullen orders someone, and a bright burst of light temporarily blinds her as it rockets into the air. His arm tightens around her, and she knows that it’s because for the moment, he needs her support.

 

_He thinks he just sacrificed the Herald._

 

She turns in his arms and wraps her other arm around him, hugging him tightly. He does the same, holding her close against him, one hand cradling the back of her head.

Her knees finally give out, and she feels herself slowly sinking as her mind descends into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can add another reason to hate Corypheus to the list: he's a cockblock.


	17. Worries and Assurances

_It had been a long day, and as soon as she walks in the door she slips out of her heels and groans when her feet flatten on the carpet. It’s the most delicious sort of pain, easing the physical and also mental aches of the day. Translating for the Italian Ambassador had been trying, considering how many consecutive meetings she had had._

_Tea, she thinks. Or wine. Or both._

_Her throat is sore, and she wanders into the kitchen and starts the electric kettle as she searches for her wine opener. Tea, and wine, and putting her feet up. That’s all she wants._

_Doug is working late, again – he had texted earlier not to expect him until after 9pm._

_Guess it’s just me and Netflix until then, she sighs and stretches._

_The kettle dings and she fills her mug, then takes her tea and wine with her to the sofa and stretches out._

_Perfection._

_Her phone beeps. And beeps again. And a third time._

_Three texts?_

_It goes off a few more times and she frowns._

_She wonders if it’s Doug, or maybe Natalia. Nat had been having some issues with her husband, maybe she needs to vent._

_Heaving a frustrated sigh she pushes herself off the sofa and walks to where she threw her purse and searches for her phone._

_It’s an unknown number, and she frowns as she opens it. Probably work, probably another translator asking how to conjugate a verb. Don’t any of them use Google?_

_Hi, I’m sorry, we’ve never met but my name’s Veronica._

_I work with your fiancé. I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it._

_I’ve been sleeping with your fiancé for the last three months._

_He told me he was single, and he asked me out. He even had a different Facebook profile that he was using, so I didn’t know until someone at work today mentioned you._

_I’m so sorry, if I’d known I never would have done anything with him._

_I thought he was available. He explicitly TOLD me he was available._

_Listen, if you don’t believe me, I have a picture he took of something we were doing._

_I hate sending it to you, but here’s my proof._

_Again, I’m so sorry. I ended things with him just now, I can’t believe he lied to me. To you._ _To both of us._

_I never meant to hurt you this way, even though we’ve never met._

_I thought the worst thing we were doing was breaking the rules on fraternization since he’s an officer. I never dreamed I was homewrecking._

_Please, if you can, forgive me._

 

_Her heart is racing and she just stares at the picture. There it is – there he is, smiling and taking a picture of someone else’s mouth on his cock._

_Her hands are shaking as she sets her phone down, and she stares around the living room unseeing._

_The whole world is shattering around her._

_She looks at the pictures hanging on the wall from an engagement photo shoot they did years ago._

_She sees the pictures of him with her parents, before their accident._

_She sees her life, yet it’s like she’s looking at it from far away, from the outside looking in, or like a stranger would see it._

_Picture perfect._

_But fake._

_She stares down at her phone, stares at the photo on the screen._

_This is the truth._

_That picture is the truth of her life._

_She closes the photo and taps her thumb on the message line._

_Thank you for telling me, Veronica. I appreciate it._

_She hits send and feels an odd sense of calm wash over her._

_She begins to make a mental list, her brain kicking into gear and her feet carrying her upstairs without her even really thinking about it._

_Grabbing a large tote bag she begins to throw items into it, and then she pauses._

_Send it, send the email you know you should. He’s her superior._

_Again, her body acts as if of its own accord. It’s like something is taking care of things for her, as if an invisible friend has stepped in and said, ‘I’ve got this, and we’ll get you out of here.’_

_Out of here. That’s all she wants. She wants to be out of here, she wants to leave immediately and never come back. There’s nothing he could say, nothing that could fix this._

_I just want to get far away from here._

_Anywhere._

_She can hear the garage door open and she panics, trying to pack faster._

_Leave, go._

_Get far away._

_He walks into the room, he’s hurrying – she heard him barreling up the stairs._

_She looks at his face, the fear there, and she can tell – he knows that she knows._

_He’s like a stranger suddenly, like she’s never seen him before._

_I wish I was anywhere but here, with him._

_I don’t want this life anymore._

 

 

Pain shoots through her head and she blinks her eyes open. Her limbs feel heavy, and achy. Her skin is prickly and sensitive, like she has a fever, and she feels simultaneously hot and cold.

She can’t tell where she is, and she looks around even though it pains her. It’s an unfamiliar room, and it’s dark.

Once her eyes adjust, she tries to find something she recognizes.

Walls are canvas, the ground is snowy dirt.

She’s in a tent, and she realizes she’s laying in a tangle of blankets and furs on a sleeping roll. There’s only one candle lit nearby, and she can tell they must have left it dark to let her rest.

Relief she doesn’t expect washes over her. She had been remembering, she had felt like she had been reliving the night she left, and she had been actually terrified when she woke up that she was on Earth.

That this had been a dream.

But she takes in her surroundings, and she feels relieved that she’s still in Thedas.

Words she never could have imagined she would think.

She pushes herself up and feels a jolt of pain tear through her shoulder. She remembers being injured, and the memories come rushing back suddenly.

 

_Dorian Pavus healed me. The Iron Bull carried me to safety. And Cullen –_

_Cullen kissed my fingertips, he had almost kissed me._

 

She remembers the look in his eyes when he was trying to determine how injured she was, the fear she saw on his face.

 

_How long has it been? How long have I been asleep? Have they found the Herald?_

 

As she wonders she shoves the blankets back and tries to clamber to her feet, stumbling slightly.

She’s weak, really weak. And only wearing one of Cullen’s shirts, she can tell because of the smell.

Oakmoss and elderflower, the same way he smells when she falls asleep on his shoulder.

Where is he?

Taking unsteady steps she walks to the tent flaps and opens them. They’re still in the mountains, that part is clear. Icy air cuts through her and she shivers, her teeth chattering as she looks around at their makeshift camp. Inquisition members are rushing around, healers and others are tending the wounded, calling out to one another for supplies.

She tries to take in all of the commotion but it hurts her vision and she sways slightly as she clenches her eyes shut to block everything out. But she still wants to try to find him, and after a steadying breath she opens her eyes again and takes a few tentative steps out of the tent.

Looking around, she doesn’t see him immediately, and then she spots a large tent that looks like a command post. He’s standing bent over a large map stretched out on barrels, and he’s arguing with Cassandra and Leliana while Josephine stands nearby.

Cecilia tries to take a few steps forward, but the snow is cold on her toes and she stumbles.

“Careful!” a voice cries from nearby, and she feels strong arms wrap around her suddenly. “Lady Cecilia, you shouldn’t be out of bed. You were injured, you need your rest.”

She raises her gaze to see that it’s Rylen holding her, and his brows are furrowed with concern. “Where are we? How long have we been -”

“Almost a day,” he answers, keeping his arms around her as he tries to steady her. “Let me escort you back to bed, please -”

“I want to see Cullen, just take me over there -”

“No, my lady, you need to be in bed -”

“But -”

“The Commander is busy, besides you’re weak, please -”

“No I just -”

He’s right, she is weak. She tries to continue her feeble protests, but she suddenly feels incredibly lightheaded and swoons. Rylen catches her against him and lifts her easily, carrying her into the tent and kneeling to lay her back on her sleeping roll. He tucks the blankets and furs around her before he stands again.

“I’ll get a healer, please stay here, my lady,” he tells her and hurries off.

She wants to disobey him and get up again, but darkness swallows her whole.

 

She’s hot, burning up, and her throat is parched.

Pushing the furs and blankets off herself she sits up and looks around. It’s darker than it was before, and she wonders how many hours have passed.

 

 _Water_.

 

She looks around for some but doesn’t immediately see any in the tent. With a sigh she pushes herself to her feet and waits before she tries to take a few steps. She doesn’t feel quite as weak, but she can tell she’s still struggling.

Opening the tent flaps she realizes immediately that it’s nighttime. The camp is lit by torches and braziers, but it’s just as busy as it was before. She looks around, trying to decide the best way to get some water.

No one is looking toward her tent, and the healers and others are too far for her to call to them easily. She sighs and begins to take a few steps forward, grimacing when she feels the cold snow on her toes.

“Celia! Maker’s breath, what do you think you’re doing?”

She turns, forgetting her quest for water at the sound of his voice. “Cullen,” she croaks, her voice quiet and scratchy.

He hurries forward and stops before her, scowling down at her. “You should be in bed, you lost a lot of blood -”

“I need water,” she whispers, her voice cracking with her effort. She reaches out and places her hands on his arms, needing to touch him, needing to reassure herself that she’s actually here.

Her vivid dreams about her last night on Earth are still coming back to her, and she wants to know that he exists, that he really is standing in front of her.

His hands are on her waist and he’s staring down at her as if evaluating her condition. “Come on, I’ll get you water and get you back in bed.”

He slides an arm around her shoulders and escorts her back into the tent. Ensuring that she’s comfortably situated on her sleeping roll, he walks to a basin in the corner and picks up a cup to fill it. She hadn’t seen them, but she’s almost glad now that she missed them.

It’s worth feeling like a fool to see him looking at her so tenderly.

Kneeling beside her he passes her the cup and she gratefully drains it.

“How are you feeling?” he murmurs, and he reaches out to push hair behind her ear.

“I’m – I’m weak, but I think I’m all right,” she tells him. She can’t take her eyes off him, can’t look away from the worry and concern that are crinkling his brows as his gaze wanders over her face.

“I was so scared for you,” he quietly confesses after several long moments of silence. “I – I thought I’d -”

He trails off and simply stares at her before he reaches out suddenly and wraps his arms around her. He pulls her against him, holding her tight as he sits back on his heels. She clings to his neck and after a moment she scoots forward and crawls into his lap, straddling him in her attempts to get nearer. She feels like she can’t get close enough to him, and he seems to be feeling the same way, since he doesn’t protest the way she’s sitting on him.

Instead he tightens his hold on her, one hand sliding down her back until it cups her rear and he lifts and moves her in an attempt to hold her closer. Neither of them seems to want to let go, desperately holding on as they seek reassurance from one another.

“I thought I – I almost lost you,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

“Cullen,” she breathes against his ear, and moves one hand to the back of his head. She’s at a loss for words, unable to think of anything to say in response to the worry she heard in his voice.

 

 _He was scared he almost lost_ me _._

 _He was_ scared _for_ me _._

 

He turns his face, the stubble on his cheek tickling and prickling her skin as it rubs against it. With one fluid movement he slides until his lips are pressing to hers, and for a moment she’s simply shocked.

Then the feeling of his mouth on hers registers in her brain and she tightens her hold on him and moans softly.

At first, his kiss is simple, just his mouth on hers. But after a few moments, as if he realizes that she’s not pushing him away or telling him to stop, he twists his mouth against hers and encourages her lips to part.

He’s hungry, needy, devouring, and she digs her nails into the fur of his mantle as she clings to him and tries to steady herself. His lips move eagerly against hers, and his tongue delves into her mouth so he can run it against hers. He tastes almost herbal, like a potion, like he’d had to take elfroot or something else for a headache.

His hand on her back slides up into her hair, and he cradles her head as he continues to kiss her with a passion she’s never experienced before with anyone.

 

_Cullen’s kissing me._

_He’s kissing me like this, like he can’t get enough of me._

She’s gasping lightly against his mouth, their breaths mingling as their tongues dance against each other and their lips devour until they ache from the desperate contact of the kiss.

She never wants it to end.

And of course just as she thinks that he finally pulls away and stares at her. “I – Celia, I’m sorry I -”

“Are you apologizing for kissing me?” she frowns and tries to take deeper breaths, her mind reeling. “Because you never need to apologize for that. You can kiss me whenever – in fact, please never, ever stop kissing me.”

He chuckles slightly and leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to her lips. “I just should have asked permission, I realize I don’t know your customs, and I -”

“Please just kiss me again.”

He grins, the corner of his mouth tugging up before he leans forward again to comply. It’s less hurried, less impatient, but she’s still struggling to breathe and steady her mind as she moans. No one has ever gotten close to kissing her like this, and she begins to drag her fingers through his hair. She notices the hand he still has on her rear is squeezing her, caressing her slightly.

Shouts sound from outside and they pull apart, both looking toward the tent’s opening and frowning. Cullen gently begins to disentangle himself from her and she sighs and pushes herself off his lap. He stands and hurries across the tent, and then looks back like he wants to say something.

“It’s fine, they need you,” she smiles encouragingly. “I’ll still be here.”

He smiles. “I’m glad you will be.”

He walks briskly out of the tent and she stares after him, musing over his words and the way he had been so scared he almost lost her.

And also the best damn kissing of her entire life.


	18. Long Denied

“I can’t believe he survived,” Cassandra shakes her head and turns to look at Cullen. “I saw – we all saw that avalanche. Maker, how in Thedas did he make it?”

“Andraste must truly be looking out for him,” Josephine chimes in, and he notices that her voice cracks and she covers her lips with her fingertips like she’s trying to hold in emotion. “Truly, he was sent to us by the Maker.”

“That’s all well and good, but we still need somewhere to go. We’re stranded here,” Leliana sighs. “We’re vulnerable -”

“But where will we go?” Cassandra interrupts. “We have nowhere -”

“We could appeal to someone, to Orlais, to Queen Anora -”

“No, we need to find somewhere defensible,” Cullen sighs, rubbing his temples.

His head is pounding, and their incessant arguing isn’t helping. He hasn’t slept, he hasn’t rested since before they assaulted the Breach. Honestly, he doesn’t care where they go or what they’re going to do, at the moment he just wants out of his armor and to lie down.

And he wants _her_ in his arms.

It’s distracting him, the memory of kissing her. For hours now he’s been overseeing the healers mending the Herald, listening to the others argue about where they should head and how soon they should depart. Occasionally he’s chimed in and tried to make his point heard, but if he’s honest, he has no idea what to do either. He feels lost.

He knows he needs to help decide, he needs to help formulate a plan. But his hands are shaking, his head aching, his mouth dry, and all he wants is to rest his cheek on her soft breasts and sleep for longer than is decent or appropriate in their circumstances.

He’s still a bit surprised that he kissed her. He’d meant to restrain himself, but the way that she had clung to him had been irresistible, the feel of her soft and so very _alive_ in his arms.

Her injury had terrified him to no end. The way she had passed out and been so pale had made his blood run cold. The whole time he had argued with the others about where to go, all he had wanted was to go sit beside her, to wipe her brows and make certain she was all right.

To make sure he didn’t lose her.

He hadn’t realized until she was injured just how much he had come to appreciate her constant presence, her sweet smile, her soothing voice. The way that she looked at him tugged at something deep inside of him and all he wanted was to hold her close to him and taste her sweetness.

Her kiss had been like fire tearing through him, and as he watches Cassandra and Leliana argue while Josephine tries to play peacemaker, his mind wanders to the memory of it. Passion, desire – every feeling he’s never let himself indulge had overwhelmed him as he clutched her to him and twisted his lips against hers.

His whole life, he’s never let himself have anything for selfish reasons. He joined the Order to protect, to serve others. He had abstained from desire, even at Kinloch, even when _she_ was there, before the Circle fell and she stopped the Blight. When he sought release in Kirkwall at the Blooming Rose, it hadn’t been desire he felt but anger, hopelessness, and desperation.

But now, when he looks at her…

He feels what he’s never allowed himself to feel before, what he’s never let himself give in to.

And Maker, _feeling_ is like a breath of fresh air.

“Commander?”

“Hm?” he looks up to see the three women staring at him, and he rubs his neck and looks away, feeling his cheeks flush.

“When did you last sleep?” Cassandra asks him.

“Before the assault on the Breach -”

“Go to sleep, Commander. We’re safe for the moment, we can continue this later,” Josephine insists.

Duty makes him want to protest and stay to plan and prepare.

The fond memory of holding Celia is his arms makes him nod in agreement and walk away to the tent where she is.

 

“ _Driving around that town, where you’ve been before, and we’re like the kids from Candy kissing in the grocery store. And there’s nowhere else to be, I could live in your old car with the broken stereo. I want to be wherever, wherever you are._ ”

 

He smiles to himself as he opens the tent flaps, recognizing her sweet voice. The words are strange, the melody is one he’s never heard before. But the sound of her singing softly in the tent makes him grin, and he looks over to see her lounging on the sleeping roll smiling. One of her hands is behind her head, the other laying on her stomach, one knee bent as she stares above her and sings.

When she hears him enter the tent she flicks her gaze to him and stops singing, a bright smile stretching her full lips as she takes in the sight of him.

“Hi,” she greets him.

He frowns. “Hi?” he mimics.

“Oh – sorry. Um, hello. It’s a – it’s slang, it’s just another version of hello,” she explains, and she almost looks sheepish as she meets his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, trying to steady himself and act normal. He’s never felt this, this feeling of connection, of pure contentment with someone else.

 _Intimacy_.

He’s never felt intimacy.

It’s warm, and safe.

And also, somehow, terrifying.

“I’m all right,” she sighs. “Still weak, which is frustrating. How is – did you find the Herald? Is he alive? I thought I heard -”

“Yes, he – he made it,” he begins to strip off his armor, setting it gingerly on the ground since he doesn’t have his stand with them. It’s odd how self-conscious he feels, considering how many times he’s removed his armor and clothes in front of her. She's even helped him do it, many times. Only now, he’s distinctly aware of her watching him. “Andraste and the Maker must really be looking out for him.”

“Oh, I – yes, they must be,” she murmurs.

He looks over his shoulder at her and frowns. “Are – are you -” He hesitates, uncertain how to ask her. “Are your people Andrastian? Do you believe in the Maker?”

“Um, I – I’m not sure,” she answers slowly. “We have different gods where I’m from. Lots of them. But I, uh – I didn’t believe in any of them. I was an atheist.”

“A – what?” he frowns. “How many gods did your people have?”

“Too many,” she giggles. “But, I – I mean, now I’m here and honestly I don’t know. I guess maybe I could. After all, I -”

She trails off though, a thoughtful frown crossing her face as she chews her bottom lip.

“After all what?” he asks as he finally pulls his shirt over his head. He’s down to his breeches and wants to sigh with relief now that he’s out of his heavy armor.

“Your land is very different from mine,” she answers slowly. “I think – maybe, I’m open to the idea of the Maker, all things considered. I – what do you believe, Cullen?”

“I believe in the Maker, and Andraste, and I believe we’re all His children,” he replies. She’s watching him avidly, and when he’s finished setting his things aside he saunters to the sleeping roll. He kneels and lifts the blankets, and she scoots over to let him slip under them beside her. “And I also believe I’d much rather talk about anything else with you, at the moment.”

“You were a Templar, I’d think talking about the Maker is required foreplay for you,” she giggles.

“Foreplay?”

“Um – I meant – um,” she blushes and looks away from him.

“What does that mean, Celia?” he asks as he cups her cheek with his hand and turns her back to face him. “Sometimes your words – I understand your pronunciation but the meaning is lost on me. That song you were singing – car? Stereo? And now foreplay?”

She giggles. “Put those three together and you’ve got an after school special about teen pregnancy,” she says, and then dissolves into hysterical laughter.

“What?” he asks, baffled, but she simply shakes her head and tries to avoid answering.

“I’m sorry, I – I think I’m still a little loopy from the blood loss,” she finally sighs. “That or the way you kissed me earlier. Has anyone ever told you how amazing of a kisser you are?”

“No one I cared to hear it from,” he sighs. He gently strokes her cheek, leaning over her and peering into her honey eyes. “Although I’d be all right hearing it from you. Another time, though, when you’re not feeling so weak -”

“No, Cullen, please – kiss me again,” she breathes, wrapping her arms around his neck suddenly. “I keep worrying this is a dream I’m going to wake up from, that I’m going to suddenly not be here with you. Please, please kiss me while you can.”

He frowns and shakes his head a little, wondering where in Thedas that fear of hers came from. But her lips are pouting, one of her hands raking through his hair as she stares up at him.

As exhausted as he had been, suddenly all he wants is to kiss her until the dawn comes.

He leans forward and presses his lips to hers, enjoying just how much of them there is to kiss. She’s responding eagerly, more than anyone he’s ever kissed, more than he ever dreamed someone could respond to his kiss. The dance her tongue takes up against his is almost desperate, her arms clinging more tightly to him as she pulls him down to her.

He rolls until he’s on top of her, one hand holding her chin as he deepens the kiss, slanting his mouth and delving his tongue deeper into the wet heat of her mouth.

“Celia,” he murmurs, pulling away. “I should let you rest, you should -”

“I’m fine, unless you need sleep -”

“I do, but I think I need this more.”

“Keep kissing me, then, Cullen,” she sighs. “Please, I – I want you to. I want you.”

He wonders if she knows what those last words do to him.

It’s insatiable longing, desire coursing through him, his blood pounding in his veins until it’s drumming in his ears and blocking out every other sound except for her soft moans and gasps.

He’s almost unsure where his nerve comes from, but he slides his hand down her side to the hem of her shirt and tentatively slides it under. She gasps and clings more tightly to him, and as if she can tell his hesitation she moans, “yes, Cullen, yes -”

Her shirt pools above his hand as he pushes it up, his heart racing. Memories of spying on her in the bath come back to him and he wants to blush, his cheeks heating as he feels ashamed. But he watches as she licks her lips and notices her eyelids struggling to stay open as he runs his hand over her full breast.

“Celia, you’re – you’re beautiful, you’re so _soft, plump_ -” She giggles and shakes her head slightly, causing him to frown. “Did I – did I say something wrong?”

“No, I – sorry, that’s just not, um what a woman wants to – oh never mind,” she sighs. “I – you think I’m beautiful?”

He’s still frowning, wondering what she was trying to tell him, but when he sees her staring up at him as if uncertain, he smiles. “Yes, very much so,” he murmurs. “You’re so beautiful, Celia. I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of you since you arrived.”

“That’s more like it -” she moans, and she arches off the cot as he pinches the nipple of the breast he’s holding.

He shifts aside the shirt and lowers his mouth, running his tongue around her hard peak and reveling in the noises she’s making. His eyes feel heavy, but he feels perfectly content.

She’s sweet, her skin deliciously soft against his mouth and fingers. He’s devouring her with his lips and tongue, leaving light pink marks to evidence the trail of his hot kisses across her chest. It’s like a dream, like the most beautiful wish fulfillment he could ever imagine.

He recalls the desire he’s had in the weeks she’s been here, the time he’s spent staring at her and lusting after her. But now it’s really happening, and she’s almost writhing under him as he kisses and caresses her bare flesh.

She’s moaning his name and he buries his face in the tempting valley of her breasts, rubbing his stubble covered cheeks against their supple roundness.

The softest pillows he’s ever felt, and he’s more content than a beloved pet curled up in front of a fire. His eyes are closed, he can’t get enough of the feeling of her full breasts against his cheek, and he holds her tight to him as he clings to her and continues to rub his cheek where it’s resting.

He’s never known peace like this. The closest was before he was sent for training, when his mother sang him to sleep or his father read him a story before he tucked him in. All of his hardships slip away, all of his usual anxieties and stresses disappear and fade into nothingness. He’s only aware of her skin against his cheek and how warm and soft she is in his arms, how much he loves having her lying beneath him like this.

Her voice is softly saying his name, one of her hands stroking his shoulders as she repeats her soft whispers, but he can’t make himself answer her questioning tone.

Instead, he tightens his arms around her and nuzzles his face against her breasts, finally giving in to the desire he’s been fighting for the last two days as deep, peaceful, contented slumber envelops him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Cullen's defense, my husband once literally fell asleep in the middle of an argument, mid-sentence. And he didn't even have the Battle of Haven to use as a defense and somehow I'm still married to him.
> 
> Cecilia was singing ["Wherever You Are" by Angus & Julia Stone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wdIVP0ZjBv4)


	19. Stunning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how relatable Cullen falling asleep like that was, and that I'm not the only one whose husband has fallen asleep in hilarious situations. Like, how do they _all_ do that? I have to practically sacrifice a goat to be able to fall asleep that easily xD

“Cullen?” she whispers again.

No reply.

Part of her is a little disappointed, her skin still wet and tingling from the attention he had been giving it with his mouth only moments before. But there’s something about the fact that he fell asleep so easily, as if he felt relaxed and safe in her arms, and that thought takes away any sense of being let down that she has.

She waits another moment, making sure that he’s fully asleep before she shimmies her shoulders slightly and without moving too much she manages to pull off the shirt he’d bunched around her shoulders. She hopes he won’t think she’s being too forward, since she’s now in just the smallclothes he helped her purchase. But she knows she won’t be able to sleep with the shirt bunched like it was, and his hot body on top of hers feels too wonderful to wake him up to make him move.

His hair smells earthy, herbal, like the rest of him, but she can see where the pomade that he puts in it has worn down over the days’ events. His curls are beginning to show again, and she raises a hand to run through them, enjoying the feeling on her fingers. She wraps her other arm around his shoulders, cradling him against her breasts, and she closes her eyes to find her own slumber.

Her last thoughts are of him, and the way he felt comfortable enough with her that he drifted to sleep in an instant, after all of the weeks she'd seen him struggling to do so.

 

 

 

Something hot, wet, and prickly is moving against her neck, but it feels good and she lets out a soft moan. Heavy, warm skin presses against her chest, and a hand slides down her side.

Her eyes flutter open and golden curls greet her.

Cullen runs his tongue along her collar bone as his wandering hand grips her waist. She realizes he’s propped above her, his other forearm resting by her head.

“Cullen?” she whispers, letting out a sigh as he presses his lips to her neck again.

He raises his head and smiles at her, the corner of his mouth pulling up to the side and her heart starts racing at the sight. “I’m sorry, Celia, I didn’t mean to fall asleep and trap you like that last night -”

“It’s fine,” she murmurs, sliding her hands up his shoulders and into his hair. “I’m happy you finally got some sleep, I know you’re exhausted, especially considering -”

She bites her tongue and stops herself just in time, realizing she had been about to say ‘especially considering your withdrawal.’ When he frowns at her she smiles and says, “When was the last time you had slept?”

“The night before the Templars and the Herald assaulted the Breach,” he answers, and he seems like he thinks she was only pausing, not that she was hiding anything in her hesitation. His attention returns to her neck, and he begins pressing kisses to it while his fingers dig into where he’s holding her waist.

“Are – are you -” she begins to ask, but he nibbles her earlobe and his warm breath tickles her ear, causing her to shiver and moan. “I – oh, Cullen -”

“Am I what, Celia?” he breathes in her ear, his hand trailing down to her thigh and pulling it aside so that he can lie between her legs.

“I was going to ask if you needed to get to - to work, but I -” she gasps. Her mind is reeling as he continues to kiss and nip her neck and ear, his fingers grasping her thigh as he holds it around him.

He’s hard, and she feels him press himself to her, his hips rubbing slightly as he kisses her neck.

 

_Oh god, Cullen’s in between my legs._

_He’s acting like he wants to take me, like he’s going to –_

_Oh my god._

 

Her whole body is shaking as if she’s freezing, her anticipation, nervousness, and desire making her tremble violently as he rolls his hips against her and sucks softly on her skin. Goose bumps spring up over her skin, and she can’t remember the last time she felt so excited to be touched and kissed.

After seven years with the same person, she feels as nervous and eager as a virgin.

“Are you all right, Celia?” he asks, releasing her thigh and placing his other forearm beside her head. His brows furrow in a deep frown, and she can tell he thinks he’s hurting or upsetting her. “Am I – I’m sorry, I don’t mean to press you. I just felt terrible for how I fell asleep on you last night, when I was trying to -”

“No, Cullen, you’re not – you’re not doing anything wrong,” she hurries to reassure him.

“Is it – uh,” he holds her gaze for a moment as if trying to think. “Are you – have you ever – I mean, I’m not bothered either way, but are you a -”

He pauses again and she tries not to laugh when she realizes what he’s trying to ask her. He’s being so kind, so tender, and a jumble of thoughts and emotions race through her mind.

 

_He’s asking if I’m a virgin because he wants to fuck me._

_I feel like a virgin, looking up at him, seeing that gleam in his eyes._

_He’s being so tender and all I want to do is beg him to fuck me, however he wants to._

_This is really happening._

_Oh my god._

 

“I – n-no, I’m not a virgin,” she tells him, even though she’s still shaking like she is one. “I – why, are you?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, I’m not,” he says.

Mentally she laughs, thinking about all the debates she ever saw online about whether or not Cullen was a virgin. She wishes for a moment that she could prove everyone wrong and settle the debate once and for all.

And then new thoughts begin to creep into her mind and she frowns.

 

_Am I still just attracted to him because I know him from the games?_

_Or do I really want him, here, in the flesh?_

 

She looks up into his golden eyes, which are moving over her face tenderly like he’s still concerned about how she’s trembling.

He’s been nothing but kind to her, reassuring, protective.

Positively chivalrous.

He’s shown her a gentleness she hadn’t realized she was missing, he’s cared for her in a way no one has in years.

Possibly her whole life.

 

_Probably still mostly crushing on him because of Dragon Age._

_But definitely, definitely also want him – this, him, this real-flesh-and-bones him in my arms._

_Especially because he so clearly wants me._

 

“Cullen?” she whispers, hooking her arms around his neck. “Cullen kiss me, I want – I want you, I want you to kiss me, I want you, here -”

He leans forward and kisses her, slanting his mouth against hers and seeking out her tongue. She moans and tightens her arms around his neck, feeling suffocated by his kiss. Wrapping her legs around his hips she pulls him closer against her and rolls her hips slightly, trying to gently encourage him.

Breaking away from the kiss he smiles down at her. “I want you too, but I -”

“No, please, don’t say we shouldn’t, don’t say but,” she sighs and twists a hand in his hair. “Please, please Cullen, take me.”

“I was just going to say I don’t think I have enough time to do everything I’d like to do to you before I have to go,” he leans forward and whispers against her lips. “I’d like to take my time -”

“We’ll have time for that,” she says eagerly, “later. Please – Cullen I want to feel you inside me.”

His eyes positively gleam when she says it, and he begins kissing her more fiercely than he was before until she’s left gasping.

Somehow she always pictured him like this, needy, devouring, lacking awkward hesitancy. As soon as she told him she wanted him, he began to act with confidence, ready to take what he wants.

It’s making her heart race, her breathing rapid and she flicks her tongue out to lick her dry lips as he hooks his fingers in her smalls and pulls them down. He sits back and begins to undo his breeches, and her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of his hard cock springing free.

“Oh god, Cullen, you look – this better not be a dream,” she moans.

He chuckles and shifts so he can finish removing his breeches and then he covers her with his body once more. “I feel the same, Celia,” he murmurs. “You’re so beautiful.”

She moans to hear him say it again, and when he uses his knees to spread her legs and slips a hand between them, she knows she’s lost.

“Yes, yes – oh god,” she breathes as she tries to wrap her head around the feelings coursing through her, as she tries to make herself comprehend what’s happening.

He runs his fingers along her, stopping and rubbing his thumb against her pearl as he slides two fingers into her. “Maker – Celia you’re so wet,” he groans and she shudders as he curls his fingers inside of her and hits her sweet spot. “You’re going to feel amazing around my cock,” he whispers in her ear and she lets out a sobbing whimper she’s never made for anyone before, a sound she didn’t even know she could make.

 

_He’s talking dirty to me._

_He’s touching me like an expert, like he knows exactly what to do to make me scream._

_Oh fuck –_

He presses his lips against hers just in time to stifle the noises she’s making, his fingers thrusting lightly into her as his thumb swirls over her and her limbs quake around him. She’s already about to fall apart, still making noises she’s never heard come out of her own mouth as he tries to muffle them with a deep kiss.

A moment later she feels her mind go blank as she comes undone, arching her back and tightening her thighs around his hips as he continues stroking her to prolong it as much as he can. The intensity feels like shockwaves, electric and more wonderful than anything she’s ever felt. When she finishes she goes limp, trying to blink until she can see straight again, and she feels him shifting above her.

“Celia, I didn’t know how much you wanted me,” he murmurs, his voice husky and almost surprised. 

“I do,” she sighs. “Please, Cullen -”

He presses against her entrance and only hesitates for a moment before he slides in, eliciting a deep moan from both of them. There’s a bit of pain, his size stretching her more than she has been before, but she bites her lip and savors the sensation and the way it blends with the pleasure coursing through her. She feels pleasantly full; he’s so deep inside her she can’t focus on anything but him within her.

Burying his face against her ear he takes a moment, whispering her name hoarsely until she moans and digs her nails into his back.

It’s the best sound she’s ever heard.

He starts slowly, rolling his hips and moving as though he’s enjoying every thrust into her, like he’s savoring her and is still determined to take his time. She runs her fingers in his hair, each of his steady movements within her making her whimper or moan and she’s still hearing herself like she’s a stranger.

Sex has never felt like this for her, she’s already feeling pleasure in a different way than she ever has. She’s beginning to wonder if they were made for each other, the way that every inch of him is exciting her every nerve, hitting sweet spots she didn't even know she had.

"Celia you feel amazing, just like I knew you would," he pants in her ear.

" _Mmmm_ Cullen," she moans. "Yes - oh please - Cullen, Cull -"

“Commander, the Herald is -”

“ _Maker_ -”

“ _Shit_ -”

“I didn’t – I’m so – so sorry -”

Cullen disentangles himself from her and turns to look at the entrance to the tent, and Cecilia crosses an arm over her chest and rolls in an attempt to hide herself. She can already tell from the brief glimpse of Rylen’s face, though, that he caught sight and knows _exactly_ what he just interrupted.

“Rylen, I -”

“I – I didn’t know you were busy, Commander, I – the Herald is awake, I’m sorry to disturb you, but -”

“Thank you, Knight-Captain,” Cullen growls, and she can hear the frustration in his voice. “I’ll be right there.”

“I – of course, Commander. I’m, um -”

“Dismissed, Rylen.”

“Yes, Ser.”

After a moment she hears him heave a sigh and she looks over her shoulder at him. She’s aching, with an emptiness low in her belly that’s making her want to groan and whimper at the loss of him within her. Her heart is still racing, and she can’t tell if it’s from the sex or the fact that they were just caught at the very beginning of it.

“I – oh, Maker’s breath,” he grits out and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I – I need to -”

“Cullen -”

“I’m sorry, I have to -”

“We were – I -”

He turns to look at her, and she can tell he’s conflicted. Reality comes racing back to her and she remembers suddenly that they’re in the Frostbacks, in a vulnerable position and on the run. She has half a mind to find Solas and get him to tell everyone where Skyhold is now so that they can just hurry up and get there.

“Go, Cullen,” she sighs. “Duty is more important.”

“I’m sorry, Celia -”

“Don’t be.”

He leans over her and she tries to smile, tries to reassure him, even though she’s frustrated and really just wants to cry. Or laugh. Or both.

“I’ll – we’ll have time, you’re right. I’ll be back,” he murmurs, and he kisses her quickly, like he’s concerned if he kisses her deeply or any longer he won’t be able to get up and leave the tent. She watches as he hurries to dress himself and put his armor on, biting her lip the whole time to keep herself from saying anything she shouldn’t.

With one last look at her lying naked in the sleeping roll, he takes a deep breath and rushes out of the tent. As soon as the flaps close behind him she groans and throws an arm over her eyes, wondering what she did to get cursed with such bad luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm horribly mean, sorrrrry!


	20. The Purest Release

He slaps his hand against his thigh, again and again, watching as they take the camp down with extreme irritation coursing through him.

The Herald is awake, and saying he knows where they need to go, where they will be safe. It only took hours of arguing before he was well enough and told them, hours that Cullen was frustrated and taking it out on the other advisors.

Duty.

Survival.

The Elder One.

He chafes when he thinks about each one, about how absolutely infuriating the entire situation is.

He knows too though that it isn’t just their vulnerable position in the Frostbacks, or the fact that they lost Haven, or even the uncertainty for the future that is bothering him. Those things weigh heavily on him, but he knows he would be able to focus on them without such aggravation if he had just been able to find the release he hadn’t even known he needed.

 _Celia_.

It had been like heaven, sleeping in her arms the way he had. It had been the first dreamless, peaceful sleep he had had in months, in almost a year. Since Kirkwall, since he went off lyrium and his night terrors and nightmares came back to disturb his sleep. It had been the easiest he had fallen asleep, ever since the Kirkwall Circle rebelled. It had been the first time he hadn’t seen Kinloch in the Fade, ever since it happened over ten years ago.

And then, early that morning, the way she had let him kiss her, the way she had responded to his every passion. The way she had said _please_ and told him she wanted him.

The feeling of being inside of her, after he’d touched her and so easily made her come undone with simple caresses.

He had never experienced anything like it, had never felt so lost in someone else. All he wanted was to stay with her, to bury himself deep inside her again and again, not caring if all of Thedas fell apart around him while he took her to his heart’s content.

What had gotten into him?

He’d never been so unfocused, so distracted from what he needed to do. As he stands and watches them dismantle camp and load the injured so that they can travel, all he can think about is her.

All he can think about is how it had felt to move within her, to caress her, to kiss her.

He shakes his head and tries to clear it, trying to refocus and still his mind.

He barely knows her.

She’s from a world where she says things like ‘car,’ ‘foreplay,’ and ‘atheist.’ A world without the Maker or Andraste. A world with lighters and dark mirrors. He still doesn’t know how she knew about the Templars and mages, or why she was so terrified before the assault on the Breach, how she had said she had a gut feeling something would go wrong. Or how she had somehow ended up being right.

And he’s slightly disturbed when he can’t make himself care enough to find out the answers. Instead, every moment he’s alone with her he just wants to kiss her, and hold her, and take her until the pain inside of him goes away and is replaced by blissful release. It's such a selfish need, and for the life of him he's done denying himself every selfish desire. He'll allow himself one, he'll allow himself her, after how much he's denied himself in his life.

He props his shaking hands on the pommel of his sword and swallows, redirecting his mind to focus on the soldiers near him, doing his best not to look behind him where she’s helping pack the items in his tent. Rylen approaches and reports on their path, on what the scouts have seen so far ahead of them.

The Knight-Captain still looks sheepish, but Cullen had brushed off his apology when he tried to bring it up. Luckily Rylen is too decent a man to ask questions or mention it directly, even though Cullen can tell from the sideways glances his second is giving him that he wants to. He pictures it, remembering what the man had walked in on, the way he had been moving between her legs and the sinfully sweet sounds she had been making in response.

Oddly, he feels a little proud, though he’d never admit it to anyone. He remembers the way Rylen had smiled at her the day he had shown her to the kitchens, the way he had made such a show over helping rescue her from the man who tried to attack her.

He’s happy that he’s laid his claim, and that it appears the other man has taken the hint, without either of them having to say anything aloud.

He looks behind him at the thought and sees her speaking with someone and helping load a cart with blankets. She happens to look up and catches his eye, and even across this distance he can see the smile that graces her face when she sees him looking at her, he can almost tell that she’s flushing with pleasure from here.

Like she _knows_ that she’s his.

Like she _wants_ to be his.

He frowns when he thinks it and turns away, intending to search out the Herald to inform him of their progress. Maybe on their journey, he’ll finally have the time to finish what he started.

 

 

 

Everything is a blur, time moving so quickly and so hectically that if it weren’t for the transition from day to night he would have no idea how much of it has actually passed. During the day he oversees the patrols, the scouts ahead, he walks the long lines of their caravan to make certain that everything is all right.

They set as quick a pace as they can, hoping to reach their destination before they lose anyone to exposure. The Herald says that it isn’t far, and they make good progress, but still each night they have a few funeral pyres for the injured and feeble that they lost during the day.

In the evening as they make camp he helps oversee the soldiers and recruits going in to the forest to chop wood for fires. When he sees that they need more he shrugs out of the top parts of his armor and joins them in their work, despite his exhaustion. Cecilia comes by and offers him water laced with elfroot and embrium that she got from the healers to help with his exhaustion, but all she does is smile, ask if he needs anything, and then she heads back to camp.

He wants to join her more than anything, but his duties keep him from their tent until finally, the second night, he staggers through the flap thoroughly exhausted. She hurries to his side and helps him remove his armor before she coaxes him into the sleeping roll where she lets him curl himself around her and pass out. The last thing he hears is her sweet voice singing softly to him as she holds him tightly to her, and again dreamless, peaceful sleep finds him.

On the third day, they finally reach it.

Skyhold.

It’s defensible, old and worn down but still solid. Cullen feels relief wash over him as he looks it over, as he sees how stalwart it is, how strategically sound it is. He hurries ahead and scouts it with a group of soldiers, ensuring it’s safe before everyone else begins to file in.

Soon, the dusty, forgotten keep is full of activity it hasn’t seen in ages. Inquisition forces move through it and begin to clear rooms, they unload, they set up makeshift clinics and tents for use until they can begin to repair the keep.

A few hours pass as he buries himself in his work and duties, but finally he sees her standing near a scout, speaking with them about whatever task she’s trying to assist with.

He has time. He’s just overseeing things, and no one will miss him for half an hour. Or less, considering how much he needs this, how much she needs it as well.

His cheeks heat as he thinks about it, and he looks around but no one is trying to catch his attention.

They’re safe, safer than they have been in days. Safer than they were at Haven.

He needs it, he needs a release.

He needs _her_.

With a crooked grin he swaggers over to where she’s standing, and his heart races when she looks up from the blankets she’s shaking out and smiles at him.

“The healers should have adequate space here, hopefully we can find more herbs -”

She begins, but he pulls the blanket from her hands and passes it to the scout as she frowns at him. “Celia, I was hoping you could assist me with something,” he says, and he holds a hand out for her to precede him up the stairs to the keep.

She has a bemused smile on her face but she nods and begins her ascent into the keep, looking over her shoulder once to look at him behind her.

He can’t tear his eyes from the sight of her walking ahead of him, staring at the round, shapely curves of her rear as she climbs the stairs. He’s beginning to harden in his breeches, straining against the leather as he remembers how it felt to be inside of her.

“What are we doing, Cullen?” she asks softly when they reach the top of the stairs, stopping to wait for him.

“I wanted to show you something,” he lies, and he grabs one of the lit torches from the walls and opens a door off the main hall.

They had only just found this, the staircase that led down beneath the main part of the keep. It’s dusty and currently less than useful, and he knows that no one has been ordered to do anything in its depths.

Which means no one will disturb them.

He leads her down the staircase, casually taking her hand in his as he leads her down. She gently squeezes his fingers, as if conveying her contentment with following him. As if she doesn’t care where he’s leading her, or why.

They make it down into the cellars, and he hangs the torch on the wall to light the room. Cobwebs and dust line every surface, every shelf, every corner, and he can tell she’s huddling close to him.

“Are you all right?” he asks, frowning.

“Are there – are there spiders here? G-giant spiders?” she squeaks, and he watches as she gulps and looks around wide-eyed.

He chuckles, despite his best efforts not to. “No, we already scouted everything. You’re perfectly safe, Celia.”

“Well, I’m with you, so yes I am,” she murmurs, and then she looks up at him as if a little surprised, as if the words had come out without her meaning to say them.

The soft shimmering of gold in her honey eyes as they reflect the torchlight is enough to undo him.

In one swift movement he pushes her into the wall behind her, one hand twisting into her hair, the other at her waist, grasping her tightly as his mouth devours hers in a searing kiss. She moans and immediately wraps her arms around his neck, and she nibbles his bottom lip as one hand slips into his hair.

“Celia – I missed you, it’s – it was too much, days without speaking -”

“It was two days, Cullen –”

“Two too many,” he sighs and kisses her again. “We never got to finish what we started. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I – I want you, I want to -”

“ _Yes_ , Cullen,” she breathes against his lips. “I missed you too, I wanted to – you were so busy, so tired, but oh god – I want you. _Now_.”

The impatience in her voice tears into him and he presses his lips to hers again, until his own positively ache from the pressure.

Her hands are at his breeches, undoing them so that she can slip a hand into the waist. When she feels that he’s already hard she moans and wraps her soft fingers around him, causing his breath to catch in his throat at the feeling of her slowly pumping him.

“Celia, Celia -”

“Yes, Cullen?”

“Let me -”

“I already said yes,” she sighs. “Please -”

Something about the way she says please makes him throb, and with a desperate groan he works on the laces of her breeches. He pushes them and her smallclothes down under the cheeks of her rear, and then he lifts her easily in his arms so that her legs are around his waist.

She gasps, as if surprised, and he pulls away from kissing her to stare into her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“You – you just lifted me so easily, like I didn’t weigh anything -” she pants, sounding surprised.

“You don’t,” he chuckles before he presses his lips to hers again. He angles her hips, exposing her to him, her breeches gathered halfway down her thighs, his hands cupping her bare rear. He adjusts so that he can reach one finger to touch her, propping her between the wall and his armored chest so that he can slide a finger along her. “I – you’re so – _unnh_ Celia, I don’t think I can wait, and I don’t think you want me to either.”

“No, I don’t – please, please,” she whispers. Her hands are holding onto the back of his mantle tightly, her arms wrapped around his shoulders to hold herself up. “Cullen, please -”

He removes his finger from her and grasps her rear, angling and moving her until he can easily position himself at her wet opening. He doesn’t hesitate this time, too overwhelmed with his pent up desire and frustration after the events of three days ago, and he thrusts himself up into her in one fluid movement.

She cries out and it echoes around the stone cellar, and he feels her flutter around him as he begins to move.

She’s close already, enjoying herself immensely just from him pushing himself into her.

“Celia – Maker, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, about the other morning -”

“Me either -” she gasps as he slides in and out of her, quickening his pace as he listens to her moan. “And I swear to god, or the Maker, or Andraste, or whoever – if someone walks in that door right now I’m going to _throttle_ them.”

He chuckles and tightens his grip on her, holding her tight as he continues moving within her. It’s just as wonderful as it was the first time, and he feels his knees almost weakening at the sensation as he thrusts into her again and again.

Each time he pushes in deep she moans or gasps, and when he feels her clench around him slightly she whimpers his name. He looks into her face to see her biting her lip, her eyes closed and her head thrown back against the wall.

“Celia,” he purrs. “You’re so tight – you feel like you were made for me -”

“I know,” she gasps. “I know.”

He quickens his pace, his mind going blank except for his focus on the feeling of her tight and wet around him. The stress of the last few days, the last few weeks, the last few months – the last ten years almost - begins to slip away. He knows he has to be pounding her into the wall, he knows she’ll likely have bruises on her back, but she’s crying out his name and clinging to him and he can tell she’s just as close as he is.

“Cullen – oh I’m going to – oh god I never have like this, I – I – I’m going to -” she groans, and when he jerks himself up into her harder she gives a keening cry, mewling his name as he feels her clench tightly around him. She's throbbing and positively sobbing, clinging so tightly to his neck it’s almost painful as she rolls her hips off the wall and thrusts against him in her euphoria. Her love cries reverberate off the walls and echo, magnifying the sound of her enjoying him until he can’t take it any longer.

“Celia, I’m going to – can I – please, let me finish in you, I want to -” he buries his face against her neck, trying to hold on as he speaks, but he feels like any moment he’s going to lose himself.

“Yes, Cullen,” she pants, “let yourself go, please -”

He groans as he feels the lingering throbbing of her orgasm around him, the small aftershocks that evidence how hard he made her come. She’s almost wailing as he fucks into her harder, and after a moment he nearly shouts her name as he thrusts up and deep, his vision going black as he pours himself into her.

He shudders and nearly wants to stumble and collapse away from the wall. But he manages to stay upright, leaning forward against her slightly until he’s certain he’s crushing her between his armor and the wall.

“Celia,” he murmurs, loving the feel of her name rolling off his tongue. “You’re – Maker’s breath, you're amazing.”

“Oh Cullen,” she sighs, and her voice is just as shaky as the legs he’s still holding. “I – I didn’t expect that. I can’t – I don’t think I’ll be able to walk straight for at least a day.”

“Only a day? I must not have tried hard enough,” he murmurs, and she giggles.

He presses kisses to her neck and her cheek before he kisses her deeply. After several long moments he pulls himself from her and helps her slide to her feet. She straightens and tries to pull her breeches up, her fingers shaking so much she struggles to get them tied several times.

He fixes his own breeches, pushing himself back in and fastening them. Running a hand through his hair he looks around the dusty cellar, trying to get his bearings.

All of the stress he had felt, all of the worry is gone.

He isn’t quite sure what it is about her, but he knows for certain that it was a lucky day for him when she stumbled into his life from wherever she was from.

When they’re both done adjusting themselves, he pulls her against him and presses a few deep kisses to her, holding her face between his hands as he does so.

“I’ll – I don’t know where I’ll be setting up my tent yet,” he breathes against her lips. “But I expect to see you there. I still haven’t been able to take my time with you, and I intend to.”

She giggles breathlessly and nods. “I – I’m looking forward to it. More than you know. This – Cullen, this was perfect.” She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him softly several times. “Truly, this – I couldn’t have _imagined_ – you’re wonderful.”

He smiles and kisses her again. “Until later.”

She sighs wistfully and nods before she releases him. He can tell she’s shaky on her legs as he takes the torch and follows her back up the stairs. Still, he can’t take his eyes off her rear, and he wonders at how wanton he’s become that he could feel so lustful while feeling simultaneously so sated.

He thought he just needed a release, but he’s beginning to realize he only wants more now that he’s had a taste.


	21. Anticipated

“Oh! Excuse me, my lady! Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m – I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention -”

“No, no, please, it was my fault.”

The Herald smiles down at her, and after a moment he finally releases her shoulders from how he had caught her to stop her falling back.

It had been her fault, since she's unsteady on her feet and wandering as if stuck in dreamland, not paying any attention whatsoever to her surroundings. Her legs are still trembling, her back and chest aching slightly from being held against the wall by his armored chest, her cheeks flushed and warm from her orgasm. She can tell in the cold wind blowing through the hall that the edges of her hair are damp with sweat, and she clears her throat and runs her hand lightly through her hair to try to detangle it.

“I – I see that you’re all better from your injury,” the Herald continues, still smiling and clasping his hands behind his back. He’s tall, almost as tall as Cullen, but not nearly as broad. His black hair is a little long and messy, his eyes wide and grey-blue, full of youthful eagerness. Cecilia hasn’t been this close to him, and she takes in the look in his eyes, the way his cheeks are smooth like he struggles to grow a beard, and she realizes he has to be several years younger than her.

 

_No wonder he follows Cullen around like he’s an eager student or a puppy._

 

“I am, yes,” she finally agrees, realizing he’s been standing patiently waiting for her to answer. “I see you are all better, too.”

“Oh, I was fine,” he shrugs and tries to brush off her concern, standing a little straighter and – _did his voice just deepen?_

“That was a brave thing you did, Herald,” she smiles at him. “I know that Cull – the Commander thinks so, as well. He was quite impressed.”

His eyes light up and then he clears his throat and looks away as if trying to hide his eagerness. “I – I was just doing what was right,” he says, but she can tell he’s trying to fight a smile. “We haven’t really spoken since you learned Common. I understand Cole had something to do with that?”

“Yes, he – he helped me,” she folds her arms across her chest.

“And where are you from? I thought all of Thedas teaches Common, I -”

“I’m from far away, Herald,” she shrugs slightly.

“You’ll have to tell me about it, sometime. I’d love to hear about your land and how you got here,” he smiles. “I realize I never introduced myself, once you learned. I’m – I’m Bron Trevelyan. You don’t have to call me Herald.”

“Thank you, my lord, but -”

“Oh, I’m – I’m not a lord,” he corrects her. “Well, I mean – the Trevelyans are nobles, but I gave up my claim to the title when I joined the Order.”

“The Order?” she raises an eyebrow as she stares at him. “You’re a Templar?”

“Yes, I am,” he nods eagerly. “I mean, the Order being what it is – at present – I suppose I’m not really part of the Order any longer, but I am still a Templar.”

“I see,” she replies slowly, nodding as she thinks.

 

_That explains why he’s so impressed with Cullen, why he follows him around for advice and like he worships the ground he walks on._

_That explains why he listened to him and chose the Templars over the mages. He wanted to save his fellows._

 

“Don’t you think?” he repeats, and she looks up from where she was staring, lost in thought.

“I’m sorry?”

“I was saying Skyhold is a sight to behold, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it is,” she agrees, looking around the main hall they’re standing in. She catches sight of Cullen standing with the other advisors at the other end, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, looking perfectly at ease.

He glances her way and she can see the way the corner of his mouth quirks up as his eyes move slowly from her feet to her face as if he’s drinking in the sight of her. She bites her lip and feels her cheeks flush, and he almost smirks like he can tell the effect he just had on her. He turns back to the other advisors and absorbs himself in conversation once more, leaving Cecilia standing and feeling like he just undressed her with his eyes.

“We’re lucky to have such competent leaders of the Inquisition,” Bron sighs, and she realizes he had followed her gaze to where the others are standing. “I’m not sure we could have survived Haven without the Commander’s leadership.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Herald,” she smiles at him when he looks down at her, surprised. “The Commander is a great man and a great warrior, it’s true. But you were just as integral to everyone’s survival. You’re capable of great things, and I think you’ll achieve even more.”

“I – thank you, my lady,” he grins broadly, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll – I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will,” she nods and turns as if to walk away, and sees Cassandra approaching.

“Herald, may we have a word?” the Seeker greets him, and then turns a small frown to Cecilia. “Ah, Cecilia – how are you feeling?”

“Oh, fine Seeker Pentaghast, thank you for asking,” she nods. “If you’ll please excuse me.”

She smiles at Bron and turns to leave, realizing she’s fairly certain what’s about to happen. And she definitely wants to be in the courtyard to see it. Hurrying through the main hall, she almost skips down the stairs into the courtyard below, realizing she’s about to see something in person that always tugged at her heartstrings when she played it and saw it happening on the screen.

 

_Inquisitor, they’re going to name him Inquisitor._

 

“Here, Celia,” a deep voice calls out, and she turns to see Cullen waving her over to the front of the crowd gathering behind him. She hurries over to him, smiling brightly. “They’re going to make an announcement, I think you’ll want to see this.”

 

_If only you knew how much, Cullen._

 

It’s strange, watching it unfold in person, standing below and looking up at it. It’s odd, watching tall, lanky Bron up there instead of the small dark-haired mage Evelyn that she always played as. It’s surreal to be a part of the crowd responding to Cullen’s rallying cries to support the Inquisition. It brings tears to her eyes, since she’s prone to crying even when happy or moved, and when Cullen notices he frowns but takes her hand and squeezes it gently.

She was just a part of history, but for a world she hadn’t thought existed, next to a man she hadn’t thought could ever be real.

 

 

 

She feels as giddy as if she’s getting ready for a first date.

The bathhouses were one of the first things established in Skyhold that day for two reasons. At the insistence of Josephine, to impress any dignitaries that may arrive, and the healers, for hygiene’s sake, and Cecilia now finds herself more than grateful that they’re ready for use.

It’s been days since she bathed, and though she’s been slowly getting used to bathing less frequently, she can tell she’s still covered in remnants from the destruction of Haven. And she knows from how Cullen said it earlier that he intends to spend all night with her, and she wants to be fresh and smell nice for him.

She isn’t as weak as she had been, but she’s still recovering, and the hot water feels wonderful on her cold flesh.

As she scrubs her skin and hair, trying to get all of the grime and dried blood off of her, she does her best not to think about it, about the way it had felt to be pierced by magic, to think she was going to die.

To see a dragon.

To see people dying.

To see the whole village destroyed.

She buries her face in her hands and takes a deep breath, instead trying to think about Cullen, and everything that had happened since they left Haven.

The first time he kissed her, when he was holding her to him to reassure himself that she was all right. The first time he was inside her, purring her name in her ear as he buried himself as deep as he could get.

The way he had snuck her down to the cellars earlier that day to finally take her completely, until she thought she would pass out from the way she had fallen apart. No one had ever made her come so easily just by moving within her, and she could still hear his voice saying, _‘it’s like you were made for me.’_

The memory sends shivers running down her spine.

She hums a bit to herself as she scrubs her skin with the soap until she’s flushed pink, trying to get every inch of Haven off of her. When she gets to her legs she pulls them out of the water, and then stares at them with her nose scrunched.

It’s been months since she was able to shave.

She tries to think over how long she’s been here, realizing it has to be over two months at least. Maybe more.

Honestly, time has blurred and she isn’t entirely sure how long ago she arrived. She could ask Cullen, maybe. He probably wrote a report about her arrival.

She giggles at the thought, wondering what he wrote.

If anything she can tell it’s been a long time by the state of her legs. She hasn’t been able to shave since she arrived. She makes a face when she notices how long the hair on her legs is, hating to think about how long it is everywhere else as well.

As much as she hated how time consuming shaving on Earth was, now she suddenly misses it. She wonders if they have a method here, and wonders if she should ask Josephine, since she’s probably the most likely to know.

Then again, it’s not like Cullen has acted like he cares at all. She giggles to herself when she realizes that’s a lingering hang up she has from Earth, different beauty standards pushed on her by a different culture. The soap she uses now smells musky and herbal compared to the sweet and floral scents she would have used on Earth. But she’s noticed Cullen burying his face in her hair to smell it anyway, like he can’t get enough of the smell.

Just another thing she’s going to have to adapt to, another thing she’ll have to try to shake from her former life.

Her former life.

That’s still so odd to think, and yet…

She doesn’t really mind.

Occasionally she still feels sad, thinking of the friends she misses. But she hasn’t thought about _him_ in ages, she no longer feels lonely or hurting. She smiles a bit to herself when she realizes why.

She heaves herself out of the bath and quickly dries herself off, dressing in the spare clothes she’s grateful now that she packed considering her others are torn and covered in blood.

It’s late, but when she exits the bathhouse Skyhold is still bustling with activity. Cullen is further along the courtyard, still giving orders and arranging guard patrols. He’d told her he would set up his tent, but she can tell he still has too much to do.

She finds their packs and begins to pull out everything she needs, trying to remember how she’s watched and helped him do this once before. She hasn’t done it on her own, though, but she’s too proud and stubborn to stop anyone to ask them how.

After several minutes struggling, though, she hears footsteps approach and a hesitant chuckle. “Do you need help, Lady Cecilia?”

She glances over her shoulder and sees Rylen standing several paces away, taking in the sight of the tangled canvas she’s struggling with.

“Um – I – yes, I probably do,” she sighs and looks over the mess she’s made. “Cull – the Commander is still working so I was trying to get his tent ready for him. I know he’ll be exhausted and won’t want to handle it later.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Rylen agrees, and she almost thinks she can see a faint blush on his cheeks in the moonlight. He clears his throat and steps forward and begins to help her, untangling the canvas and shaking it out. “Um, my lady, I wanted to – I wanted to apologize for the other morning. I didn’t realize – I’m mortified that I saw – that you were -”

She giggles, thinking it strange to see someone as self-assured and tough as Rylen stumbling with embarrassment over his words like this. “It’s fine, Rylen, it was an accident – don’t trouble yourself about it.”

He smiles and nods. “I tried to apologize to the Commander as well but I think he was still a bit angry about it. I’m surprised he didn’t put me on ditch duty.”

She laughs harder and shakes her head. “I doubt he would do that.”

“I’m not sure, my lady, he seemed very – uh – frustrated,” he chuckles. “He’s seemed a bit better today, though. I think I even caught him smiling earlier.”

Cecilia hangs her head as if focusing on what she’s doing with the canvas in her hands, hoping her damp hair hides the way she’s blushing. “He must be happy about Skyhold,” she says after a moment, trying to keep her voice even.

“Yes, that must be it,” he agrees slowly. “I know how concerned he was about finding a defensible location for the Inquisition.”

She nods but doesn’t answer.

“I – my lady, I hope you don’t think I’m being too bold, but -” he pauses for a moment, and when she looks up she can tell he’s considering his words carefully. “I’m happy that – or rather, I’m relieved the Commander has you. He’s – he’s been through a lot, but I can tell he’s been more relaxed, since you arrived. A bit more, uh, approachable. I just thought you should know, you’ve been good for him.”

“Th-thank you, Rylen,” she says, frowning. “Was he – was he that much of an ass before I arrived?”

Rylen chuckles and shakes his head. “He ran the recruits ragged and shouted at everyone in sight just for breathing too loudly. Lately he’s been – a bit more understanding.”

“I’m happy to hear that, then,” she smiles to herself, turning away from Rylen so that he can’t see just how pleased she is to know she’s had that much of an effect on Cullen.

When they finish setting up the tent Rylen gives her a small bow and walks off, and she watches him walk across the courtyard as she thinks about what he said. Her thoughts are interrupted when she sees him suddenly stand a bit straighter and halt when the Seeker walks by, and they speak briefly before Cassandra continues on her way.

And Rylen stands watching intently as she walks away from him.

Cecilia presses a hand to her mouth and hurries into the tent, trying not to laugh too loudly when she thinks about the way the man was staring after the Seeker.

Waiting for Cullen feels like an eternity, with nothing to do after she changes into his shirt and curls up on the sleeping roll. She pulls her phone out and flips through her pictures, rereading old emails and messages from friends that are still saved on it. She doesn’t feel as melancholy as she normally does when she looks through them, thinking instead that while she had a good life on Earth, she’s having a more exciting one here.

She frowns a little when she thinks that, musing over why that makes her so happy, considering she almost died a few days before.

Her thoughts are interrupted when she hears footsteps approaching the tent and she quickly turns her phone off.

 

 _Seventy-five percent_.

 

Cullen walks into the tent and immediately smiles when he sees her waiting for him. “I see you got the tent all set up, I’m sorry I was -”

“Don’t worry about it,” she returns his smile and pushes herself to her feet. “Rylen helped me set it up.”

He frowns sharply and pauses in unfastening his sword belt. “He did?”

“Yes, he saw me struggling and offered to help. I felt so silly, I couldn’t do it on my own,” she reaches up and begins to undo his mantle, starting to help him remove his armor like she usually does.

“I see,” he says, and she looks up at his tone of voice. He looks like he’s scowling.

“Are you all right?” she asks softly, reaching up and running her hand along his cheek.

“I’m fine.”

She raises an eyebrow, trying to figure out why he’s frowning so deeply. And then she thinks about what Rylen had said, about how he had seemed angry at Rylen personally. She remembers too the way he always seems irritated when Rylen talks to or smiles at her.

 

_He’s jealous._

_Oh god, Cullen’s jealous of another man over me._

 

She tries not to giggle at the thought, since he has no idea how ludicrous it is to her that she could even think about anyone else while he’s standing here in front of her. “You know, I saw him speaking with Cassandra and I have to say – the way he was looking at her…Is there any history there?” she asks lightly, watching his face carefully.

“I don’t believe so, why would you think -”

“Oh just something about the way he looked at her. It reminded me of the way you looked at me, earlier,” she smiles up at him sweetly, hoping that he picks up on her hint.

When his frown slowly fades and a thoughtful look comes across his face, she knows he must have. He doesn’t seem as irritated as they continue to remove his armor, and when he’s finally down to his breeches he seems like his annoyance has disappeared completely, and she smiles to herself.

She opens her mouth to ask him about how his work establishing Skyhold is going, but he suddenly wraps his arms around her and crashes his lips against hers. For a moment she simply struggles to catch her breath, but then she moans and slips her arms around his neck and clings to him tightly.

“Mmm, Cullen -”

“What have you done to me, Cecilia?” he murmurs against her lips. “I can’t stop thinking about you, it’s like you bewitched me.”

“I didn’t, I – oh, Cullen,” she sighs as he begins to slide his mouth down her neck. He slowly backs her to the sleeping roll and guides her down onto it, his hands sliding up her legs under the large shirt she’s wearing until he pulls it off over her head. When he sees that she isn’t wearing anything underneath he groans.

His hands and mouth are everywhere, moving so hungrily over her skin she can hardly focus on the sensations in one area before he moves to another. She’s breathless, raking her nails through his hair as he slides his mouth down her chest and her stomach. Her skin prickles with goose bumps and she knows his fingers have to be leaving red marks from how he’s roughly grasping and trailing them over her curves.

He’s moving as if determined, as if he’s fulfilling some wish of his, some idea he had, and she realizes he had to have been thinking about this all day. Or longer.

When he grips her thighs and pulls them apart, she moans. But when he spreads her wet folds with his fingers and begins to swirl his tongue against her excited pearl she lets out the same cry she’s never made for anyone but him. He’s eager, and relentless, and every time she whimpers or moans he slows his rhythm for a moment as if to tease her.

He slides two fingers into her and the sensations that spread through her body make her mind go blank as she arches off the sleeping roll beneath her. As soon as she’s close he pulls away and looks up at her, and she lets out a desperate sob as she looks down at him. He continues moving his fingers within her slowly while he simply holds her gaze.

“Cullen – please, I’m – I’m going to – please keep going,” she gasps, and his tongue snakes out and runs slowly along her until she shudders. But he pulls back again and she groans.

“I will if you keep begging me to, Celia,” he purrs. “The way you say please makes me feel desperate for you. I never want you to stop.”

She clenches her eyes shut as he curls his fingers in her and hits her sweet spot, and without hesitation she starts begging him, chanting ‘please’ and his name as if she’s reciting a prayer.

When she falls apart she cries his name so loudly she feels certain all of Skyhold had to hear her, and the smile on his face as he sits back and begins to remove his breeches tells her that was exactly what he had wanted her to do.

The smug smile stays on his face as he lays back on the sleeping roll and pulls her onto him, easily parting her thighs until she’s positioned astride his hips. She leans down and kisses him eagerly, loving the taste of herself on his lips.

“You’re a wicked man, Cullen,” she giggles, and in response he grips her hips and shifts her back, easily thrusting up into her at the same time. She cries out in surprise and he smirks up at her.

“Maybe I am,” he tells her. “If so it’s because you’ve ruined me.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but all that escapes her lips is a sob of his name as he begins thrusting. He keeps his hands on her hips, lifting her to guide her in a quick pace above him, and she braces herself with her hands above his shoulders to steady herself. He’s powerful, and even though she’s on top of him he’s still the one controlling everything and fucking her.

There’s an eager gleam in his eyes as they wander over her, and she can tell he’s enjoying the sight of her moving above him. She leans back and sits up and he moans as he watches her breasts bounce with each of his thrusts into her. Smiling and moaning she grabs one of her own breasts and feels his fingers tighten on her hips as he watches her.

She moans his name again and again, feeling like she's already getting close to coming again. Keeping one hand on her breast she reaches with her other to touch herself, and he groans loudly as he watches her.

"Yes, Celia - come for me, come for me," he pants, and the desperate tone of his voice sets her over the edge.

She whimpers and throws her head back, feeling her whole body shake as she clenches around him. He cries her name and pulls her hips hard against him and she feels his release leaving him in hot spurts inside her.

She collapses on top of him and he wraps his arms around her, holding her tightly to his chest. Time passes in a haze as they lay there trying to catch their breath, unable to move or speak.

When she finally regains her senses she frowns as a sudden thought crosses her mind. "Cullen?"

"Hmm?"

"Is there - is there something that I need to do or take to, um, prevent pregnancy?"

He's silent and then raises one hand and she hears the slap of skin on skin. She looks up at him to see his hand over his eyes and he heaves a deep sigh. "Maker I didn't even think about that, I - I forgot, the only wome -"

He trails off and she frowns. "The only what?"

"Nothing. I'll - I'll talk to Adan, he should have it. And I'll look into requisitioning more," he slides his hand down his face and stares down at her. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have -"

"It's fine," she tries to reassure him, but her heart races a little and she isn't sure if it's excitement or anxiety at the thoughts running through her mind.

He rolls them over so that he's above her, and he props himself with an elbow and runs one hand over her belly. She lays beneath him, frowning as she watches him. He suddenly clears his throat and removes his hand, staring into her eyes instead.

They're so golden, so warm.

And if she's not wrong, there's a curious eager gleam in them as he smiles down at her.


	22. Words

“Is this – is this one from a sword? Or – it looks like something stabbed you,” she sounds surprised as she trails a finger delicately down a scar on his chest.

He looks down at where she’s propped above him, inspecting and tracing each one of his scars with her soft fingers. She stops at the burns on his upper arm and frowns as she circles them, taking in the way his flesh is puckered slightly.

“I – I can’t remember,” he mutters. “One of many battles.”

She glances at him, looking like she doesn’t believe him, but lowers her gaze again to where her fingers are caressing the lingering vestiges of his healed wounds. Her expression is soft, caring, and for the first time he wonders if he could tell someone where he got them all.

She leans over and presses her lips to the largest of the scars, repeating the gesture a few times before she moves on to the next to do the same.

“Celia, where are you from that you haven’t seen scars like this? Or death? Is your land not dangerous? Were you a noble, and sheltered from danger?”

“I – it was dangerous, but not like this. It was – it was safer, I suppose,” she answers slowly, still tracing over his scars as she thinks. “And I wasn’t a noble. We didn’t – we didn’t have nobles. Not in the same way, at least.”

“Your hands are so soft, like you didn’t labor at all,” he takes one of her hands in his as he speaks and runs his thumb over her palm.

“I was a translator, I didn’t really do any manual labor,” she shrugs.

“But even when you weren’t translating, didn’t you have things you had to do? Even just around your home?” he frowns as he watches her. She’s staring intently at where her fingers are moving over his skin, not raising her gaze to his at all. “Did you have servants who did that for you?”

She giggles and shakes her head. “No, I couldn’t have afforded that. I just – it was different. There wasn’t as much to do, like that, I guess you could say.”

He can’t make much sense of her, and he notices that she’s carefully guarding her words as she answers. He wants to press her, but he also doesn’t want to ruin the peaceful mood they’re in. This is unlike anything he’s ever experienced, laying with her in bed after taking her, holding her in his arms and talking softly. It’s certainly something he never got at the Blooming Rose, and he never lingered afterwards with the few and rare casual lovers that he had outside of the brothel.

But right now, all he wants is this, holding her and speaking together in their afterglow. Again, the sense of intimacy he feels is exhilarating, comfortable but also nerve-wracking. He almost feels his heart racing, hoping he doesn’t do or say something wrong to ruin their contentment.

And so he decides to stop asking her about where she’s from.

“How are you feeling? I haven’t asked you since we got here, I know the journey must not have been easy,” he reaches up and pushes her hair behind her ear.

“I’m better,” she smiles sweetly and raises her gaze finally. “Still a little weak but I think I’m almost recovered.”

“We should probably get some rest,” he sighs. “There’s much work to be done tomorrow, and you’re still recovering -”

She sighs as well and puts her cheek on his chest as if disappointed. “I suppose,” she concedes.

He chuckles and wraps his arms around her, lifting his head and leaning down to kiss the top of her hair. “Don’t worry, we always have the morning, or tomorrow. I’ll need a break at some point.”

She giggles and snuggles closer to him. “I like the sound of that. Although first, the um -”

“I know, I won’t forget,” he says. His insides squirm again when he thinks about how careless he’s already been, but they’re not just twisting with anxiety that he didn’t think about precautions.

He’s almost ashamed when he thinks about how his first reaction wasn’t concern or regret. Instead his mind had wandered, had instantly conjured an image of her rounding out with his child growing inside of her. He’d pictured babies with her pretty almond shaped eyes and dark hair, an image of her holding a babe on her hip while another ran ahead of her, playing.

A family.

Another thing he’d denied himself, that he hadn’t even ever let himself think about. And at Kinloch, how that unspoken desire had been used against him…

But now that he’s given in and let himself have one selfish desire, it’s easy for him to start thinking about more that he’s denied himself. And for some reason, thinking about it with her is easy.

He can’t tell if that is thrilling, or completely terrifying.

She snuggles her face against his chest and wraps a leg over his waist, clinging more tightly to him as she settles in for sleep. “Cullen?” she murmurs, and he can tell that her voice is heavy with sleep even though she’d sounded like she didn’t want to stop talking.

“Yes, Celia?”

“I’m – I still don’t know how I got here, but,” she lifts her head and gives him a small smile. “I’m happy that I met you.”

“I am too,” he squeezes her more tightly as she settles back onto his chest, and he gently strokes her hair until sleep finds them both.

 

 

 

“I’m afraid this is all we have, Commander,” Adan sighs and shoves the small vial of witherstalk sap into Cullen’s hand. “The rest we lost at Haven, and if you hadn’t noticed it doesn’t exactly grow in the Frostbacks.”

“I – this is it? Just this one vial?” Cullen stares down at the small glass filled with translucent chartreuse liquid.

“Yes,” Adan answers brusquely. “Why, Commander? Are you just checking supplies or do you need it for more, ah, personal reasons?”

Cullen shoots the man a glare but pockets the vial. “Where would we find more? We should send scouts to locate some. After all, we have – a large number of men and women in the Inquisition, I’m sure there will be a need for it.”

Adan raises an eyebrow and stares at Cullen, seeming to resist a smirk after noticing Cullen pocket the vial. “I’ll pass it along to Knight-Captain Rylen, so that he can organize sending our men -”

“No, that’s fine, send it to me,” Cullen interrupts. He puts his hands on the pommel of his sword and looks around the small, dusty room the alchemist has taken up residence in. “As well as any other needs you may have. I’ll see that we begin to fill our requisitions as soon as possible.”

“For witherstalk sap?”

Cullen hates the hint of humor in the other man’s tone, and after shooting him one last glare he turns on his heel and walks out of the room.

He takes long strides across the courtyard and looks around at the early morning bustle of activity. There’s plenty of work to be done, and it fills him with an odd sort of pride to see just how eager everyone seems to begin the day. The discovery of Skyhold and the proclamation of the Inquisitor seem to have reinvigorated everyone’s resolve.

He reaches the tent to find Cecilia shrugging into her leather vest and lacing it, and when she hears him enter she turns and smiles at him.

“Here, I spoke with Adan,” he reaches into his pocket and removes the small vial. “Unfortunately this is all he has, the rest was destroyed at Haven.”

She frowns and takes it from him, staring at it for a moment before she raises her gaze to his. “How does it work? I mean, I just – do I drink it now, or?”

“Yes – Maker, yes, the sooner the better,” he replies quickly, and then rubs the back of his neck and looks around. “It uh – I’m sorry, it probably should have been taken sooner, considering when we – uh, yesterday in the cellar. I should have thought of it, I’m so sorry that I didn’t -”

“It’s all right, Cullen. I should have thought about it too,” she shakes her head as she uncorks the vial and takes a deep breath. “After all, you asked, I – I should have said no, but I forgot. I haven’t had to worry about it for seven years, I -”

But she trails off awkwardly and stares at the vial for another second before she takes one more deep breath as if to prepare, and then downs the contents of the vial in one go.

“Oh god that’s disgusting,” she wrinkles her nose and presses her fingers to her lips. “Um – is that it? I just -”

He nods and takes the empty vial from her. “I apologize, Celia, I -”

“Stop saying you’re sorry, Cullen,” she giggles. “We’re both adults, we both know that there’s always a chance…”

Again she awkwardly trails off and returns her focus to lacing up her leather vest.

“What are you going to do today?” he asks, trying to sound casual. Trying to sound like he isn’t again thinking about what would happen if the witherstalk didn’t work, about the desire that keeps creeping into his mind.

“That’s a good question,” she purses her lips. “I guess I’m going to find some way I can help. I don’t want to sit around in the tent all day.” She finishes lacing her vest and picks up her black cloak and pulls it over her shoulders. “Where will you be?”

“Overseeing everything,” he sighs.

They start to walk to the flaps of the tent, but he stops and pulls her by her arm back to him suddenly. Sliding one hand into her hair he cradles the back of her head and crushes his mouth to hers. She parts her lips and leans into him, her hands resting on his arms as a soft moan escapes against his kiss. He isn’t certain why he felt so overwhelmed by the desire to kiss her, but he loses himself in the feeling for several long moments before he realizes he should get to his duties. He releases her with a sigh and stares down into her face, noticing the breathless way she’s holding his gaze and smiling up at him.

“I’ll – I should get to my duties,” he says after a long moment and steps away.

“Right – yes,” she nods absently and runs her fingers over her lips. “I should go – find something to do.”

They take a moment, both seeming like they’re trying to collect their thoughts. Cullen finally clears his throat and gestures with his hand for her to precede him, and she smiles softly at him before she turns and leaves the tent.

  

* * *

 

Try as she might, she feels useless.

She’s spent the morning attempting to help the healers, but since she’s so unfamiliar with the herbs and techniques, she feels like she’s in the way more than she helps. She ends up just running errands and messages for the healers for a time until even that becomes a burden because she doesn’t know where to find anything or who anyone is.

She wanders through the courtyard, one arm across her chest to prop the other one as she chews her thumb in frustration, trying to think how else she can help the Inquisition. She doesn’t want to just sit in his tent all day, she doesn’t just want to be there when he wants to fuck her.

If she sits around waiting for him to join her and come to bed, she knows that she’ll resent it and begin to feel like a prostitute. She needs to do something, she wants to prove she can be more in Thedas. She’s trapped here, and she wants to do what she can to be a part of this world, and a part of the Inquisition. She refuses to do nothing.

“I see you’re up and about again,” a voice says from behind her, and she turns eagerly when she recognizes it.

Dorian is standing nearby, his arms folded as he looks her up and down for a moment.

“Yes, I am, Do – um, thank you, so much,” she takes a few steps toward him, smiling. “I never had a chance to thank you for healing me. You saved my life. I’m – I’m Cecilia, by the way.”

“Dorian,” he answers curtly, smirking slightly. “And yes, you’re right – I think I did. Nice to have someone actually say _thank you_ for a change.”

“Has no one said thank you for what you did at Haven?” she asks, unable to resist.

He frowns at her and considers for a moment before he shakes his head and looks out at the courtyard. “No, I’m afraid they haven’t. Ah well, what else was I to expect considering I’m just a dirty Tevinter mage?”

She smiles at him, trying to look reassuring. “They’ll come around, I’m sure. It just – it may take them a while.”

He purses his lips thoughtfully and looks away. “Perhaps.”

“I – um, do you have anything you need help with? I’m trying to find a way to help but so far I feel a bit useless,” she sighs and looks around the courtyard.

“No, I’m afraid I’m in the same position as you. At least people won’t turn and run when you offer them help,” he sighs.

“I’m not so sure about that. I’m not exactly from around here.”

He looks her up and down, taking in the outfit she’s wearing, the clothes that Cullen picked out for her. “I noticed your strange accent, but – you look Fereldan, is that not the case?”

She shakes her head and looks away from him out over the courtyard. It’s bustling with activity, with everyone preparing Skyhold. She feels like even more of an outsider than normal and sighs.

“Well, my dear, let’s give them time. I’m certain they’ll come to appreciate our value eventually,” Dorian smirks as he joins her in looking over the courtyard.

“I – Dorian, um, would you care to have a drink later? I at least owe you that after you saved my life, and I just – seeing as we’re both sort of outsiders, maybe we should stick together.”

“I’m more of an outsider than you are, my dear. You at least seem to have that golden Commander at your beck and call,” he muses, quirking an eyebrow as he says it. “But I know better than to turn down an offer to drink with a beautiful woman. I – I appreciate the offer.”

“I’ll see you then,” she smiles brightly at him and reaches over to squeeze his arm before she walks away. Her heart is racing slightly, like she just spoke with one of the most popular kids at school.

Dorian has always been one of her favorites, but being here and seeing events actually unfold, she realizes that he has to be feeling lonely. He wasn’t at Haven, hanging around for a while like he did in her games when she sided with the mages – which was always. He’s more of a stranger than she is, right now – but she hopes that they’ll get along and that he appreciates her offers of friendship.

She walks across the courtyard, still looking around for someone she can help. Horses aren’t her area of expertise, so the stables aren’t an option. She was in the way with the healers, even though she knows that’s where help is needed the most. The rebuilding and cleaning occurring won’t be the best option for her either, since she’s still weak from blood loss. Maybe she could seek out Adan, maybe mixing potions is something she could do. She bartended in college and grad school, how different could it be, really? The basic principles at least have to be the same.

As she walks through the courtyard, she passes the gates where a man is standing speaking with two guards, and the conversation is getting louder and louder as it progresses.

“Please – you have to help us. I’ve heard the Inquisition is a source of aid, and my people need -”

“Oy, calm down – we can’t understand you and speaking more loudly isn’t helping -”

“Maker, Orlesian, calm down -”

“Bandits are planning an attack on my village, please we need soldiers -”

“We’ll find someone who can help translate -”

“Andraste’s ass calm down man -”

“Please you have to help us -”

Cecilia frowns and stops, staring at the commotion taking place. She can’t understand why the guards are rolling their eyes and holding the man back; his request was perfectly clear.

“What’s the problem, here?” she hears a deep voice call from behind her, and she turns to see Cullen hurrying forward, followed by Josephine and the Herald. They look like they were in the middle of a meeting, perhaps about the progress being made in Skyhold.

“Commander, this Orlesian won’t stop shouting -”

“He’s asking for help,” Cecilia interrupts, stepping forward to meet the others.

Cullen’s eyebrows raise when he sees her, and he looks between the man at the gates and her. “Soldier, is that right?”

“Uh – Commander, we couldn’t understand him, he’s only speaking Orlesian -”

“He – he said his village is going to be attacked by bandits,” Cecilia explains, shrugging.

Cullen, Josephine, and the Herald all stare at her, confused.

“Ask him where his village is,” Cullen says after a moment, frowning.

She turns to the man and asks, and he perks up when she addresses him.

“Not far, not even half a day’s ride,” the man answers. “Please, we need aid. We’re such a small village.”

“What did he say?” Cullen asks.

“He – he said his village is less than half a day’s ride from here, and it’s very small and in need of aid,” she answers, frowning. “Are you – can you not understand him?”

“He’s speaking Orlesian,” Cullen tells her, and he still has a small frown on his face. “I – tell him if he accompanies our soldiers we can send a small band to aid him.”

Cecilia relays the message, and the man pushes past the guards who were holding him back and takes her hand in his, kissing it. “Thank you, dear lady. Please hurry, I think they mean to attack before the dawn.”

“Celia?”

“He – he said he thinks the attack will happen before dawn.”

“Then we have no time to lose,” Cullen says. “I’ll organize a small band of soldiers. Celia, will you come here?”

She conveys what Cullen said to the man and then turns to follow the Commander as he begins walking away.

“You understood him?” he asks when they’re alone.

“Yes, I – I didn’t realize he was speaking a different language,” she frowns and looks back at the group at the gates.

Cullen considers her for a moment and then looks over the courtyard. “Whatever that boy – that spirit, Cole, did must have worked for _every_ language.”

“It must have,” she shrugs. “I didn’t realize -”

“What does it sound like I’m speaking?” Cullen asks with a deep frown.

“It – it sounds like you’re speaking my language,” she answers with a shrug.

“And yet to me, you sound like you’re speaking Common. And just now, you spoke flawless Orlesian to that man.”

“I did?” she stops in her tracks, shocked. “I – I was just speaking, I didn’t know -”

“Commander!”

They both turn and see Josephine and the Herald rushing over to them.

“Why did you not tell us that she can – that your charge can speak other languages?” Josephine asks as she looks Cecilia over. “I thought Cassandra said she couldn’t even speak Common.”

“It seems that’s no longer the case,” Cullen answers as he places his hands on the pommel of his sword.

“Don’t you understand how beneficial that is to the Inquisition?” Josephine says, still looking Cecilia over as if evaluating her eagerly. “We could use that skill, if she can speak more than just Common.”

“I suppose,” Cullen turns his frown to Cecilia, and she mirrors it.

She wants to be useful, why wouldn’t he be happy about that?

“If – if I can help, I’d be honored to,” she answers, looking to Josephine and the Inquisitor.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Bron chimes in, smiling as he clasps his hands behind his back. “Don’t you, Commander?”

“I – yes, I do, Inquisitor,” he replies slowly. “I suppose we can discuss it later, though, I need to arrange a deployment of soldiers to aid the man’s village. Celia – if you would accompany me?”

She nods and smiles briefly at the other two before she follows him. “What do you need me for, Cullen?”

He doesn’t answer, instead walking quickly across the courtyard until she has to follow him at a half-jog to keep up. Rounding a corner he glances around, and when he sees no one nearby he grabs her wrist and pulls her to him, pushing her against the wall and pressing his body against hers.

“Cullen -”

He crushes his lips to hers, silencing her as his tongue delves into her mouth desperately. Her breath is stolen from her until she’s gasping and panting against his hungry kiss. When she moans he finally pulls back slightly, staring into her eyes for a moment before he speaks.

“Celia,” he murmurs. “You’re mine. I – I don’t like the idea of sharing you -”

“You – I -” She hesitates for a moment.

If anyone had ever said that to her on Earth, she probably would have slapped them. Even once she was engaged, she didn’t feel like she belonged to anyone. But somehow, it’s like she can tell the intentions behind his words, and they make her knees weaken.

He’s saying she belongs to him, sure.

But she knows he’s also saying he belongs to her.

“Cullen, it – it won’t be sharing me if I do work for the Inquisition,” she says finally. “I want to be helpful, and if this is what I can do – I know how to act around dignitaries. I can learn etiquette easily. I could speak with all of them, if I know all of the languages. I could help Josephine, make her job easier. Think about how much we could accomplish, how easily we could do it.”

He almost scowls at her for a moment as he considers her words before he finally sighs and nods. “I suppose you’re right,” he admits at last. “I just – I feel like -”

“I’ll still be yours,” she whispers, leaning forward and brushing her lips against his. Her heart is racing as her mind churns over the way he’s so eager to claim her.

The notion of belonging to him is making her giddy with excitement, and it’s odd because she never expected to feel thrilled by simple words so easily.

His hand reaches up suddenly and grips her jaw, tilting her head up until her neck is arched and she’s staring up at him.

“Yes, you will be,” he tells her, and then he lowers his mouth to hers again. His kiss is slow, determined, unhurried but conveying everything he was saying to her.

His kiss is possession, and she loves every minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cecilia got the Tardis Translation (TM) treatment


	23. A Start

“I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to show.”

“I’m terribly sorry, I – you won’t believe the afternoon I had,” she giggles as she slides onto the stool beside Dorian at the bar. “What are you drinking?”

She leans over his arm and peers into his goblet.

“Yes, I’m sorry I decided to start without you,” Dorian sighs. “And honestly, I’m trying not to think too hard about what it is. I may have to find a way to bribe the barkeep to find some better wine from Tevinter.”

Cecilia giggles and flags down the barkeep, ordering the same as Dorian. She stares down at the few coins she pulls out of her small coinpurse in a handful, frowning and uncertain. Cullen had given her some money in case she needed to buy anything for herself before they were able to sell her ring, but she has no idea what each coin is. She bites her lip and looks up sheepishly.

“Dorian – I need help, how much -”

He raises an eyebrow at her and looks down at the money in her hand, reaching over after a moment’s consideration and picking out the right amount. “You really aren’t from here, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” she shakes her head and laughs. To hide her embarrassment she takes a deep gulp from her goblet, feeling it burn on the way down, and she wrinkles her nose at the taste. Dorian’s right, it’s best not to think too much about what it is.

“So where are you from?” he asks.

“‘If I say Earth, will that only lead to more questions? America is sure to confuse, and I was born in Paris, but then there was London and Frankfurt when I was younger, before New York. Will Virginia confuse anyone? D.C. will. What can I ever say -’”

“Cole, please – no -” Cecilia looks around and spots the spirit, standing beside the bar and looking around, his eyes hidden by the large hat he wears.

“What was – was that what you were thinking?” Dorian asks, frowning. “I didn’t recognize any of those places.”

“I – like I said, I’m not from here,” Celia takes another deep gulp from her goblet. “Cole, what are you doing?”

“You’re lonely. I wanted to help,” Cole answers.

“I’m not lonely, I’m -”

“Not you. Him,” Cole finally raises his gaze and stares at Dorian. “You feel like such an outsider, but maybe – talk to her. She wants to be your friend, she wants to help you. If anyone could understand how you’re feeling and make you feel welcome, it could be her.”

“I could have figured that out on my own,” Dorian quips. “By having a conversation. Have you heard of it?”

Cecilia turns from Cole to look at Dorian, frowning slightly. “Dorian, are you – are you all right?”

He stares at his drink in silence for a long time, and then finally raises his gaze and flags down the bartender. “I’m fine, Cecilia, but thank you for asking.”

“Dorian, I – can I tell you a secret?” she asks softly, leaning closer and looking around so that no one else can hear them.

“If you must.”

“I’m – when I say I’m not from here, I mean – I don’t know how I got here,” she tells him quietly. She isn’t certain what compels her, but she thinks about the magic he studied with Alexius, she thinks about the rifts and time magic he must have witnessed in Redcliffe before arriving in Haven. Something tells her that of anyone, he might believe her the easiest while being the least suspicious. “I woke up here. I’m from – I’m from another world. Earth.”

Dorian raises his gaze to hers, looking over her face with surprise evident in his eyes. “So those places he was listing?”

“Places where I’m from,” she nods. “No one knows. They know I’m not from here, but they don’t know that it’s not – it’s not _anywhere_ near here. I shouldn’t be here.”

“And you say you don’t know how you got here?” he frowns and takes a thoughtful gulp of his drink.

“No, I don’t,” she shrugs. “I was in an accident, and then I woke up here.”

“An accident?”

She bites her lip and hums slightly as she thinks of how to describe it. “I, um, was traveling. And had an accident and hit my head. Then I was in the snow, outside of Haven.”

“So you’re not from Thedas?” he asks, lowering his goblet as he looks her over. “You’re speaking perfect Common, how -”

“Cole,” she answers, gesturing behind her as she turns. Cole has moved and is further along the bar, watching the bard play the lute. “He – he did something and now I can understand everyone. Actually, that’s why I was late. Here, Dorian, say something to me in Tevene.”

He frowns at her and thinks for a moment. “All right, this is me, speaking Tevene, odd girl from ‘Earth.’”

“Am I really that odd?” she laughs, and Dorian stares at her, flabbergasted.

“How did you learn Tevene? Your pronunciation is a bit amusing with your accent, but that was perfect,” he shakes his head lightly, as if he’s trying to soak it all in.

“Did I just speak Tevene to you?” she asks, her eyes wide. “I’m going to have to pay more attention to how that works. I just meant to show you that I understood what you said.”

“Yes, you spoke Tevene,” he purses his lips, thinking hard as he considers his goblet. “So why did that make you run late?”

“Oh, there was an Orlesian man at the gates, and no one could understand him. When I translated, well,” she shrugs. “The Ambassador for the Inquisition offered me a job. I’m going to be her assistant.”

“Look at you, Earth girl, moving up in the world, gaining trust and respect,” he says, and he almost sounds bitter.

“Dorian, I – have you spoken to the Herald since we arrived? Or rather, the Inquisitor, now, I suppose. I’m certain he’d love to speak with you about -”

“I haven’t but it looks like I’m about to get my chance,” Dorian interrupts, looking past her at something.

She turns around and sees Bron approaching, carrying a tankard and being followed by Sera and Varric.

“Lady Cecilia, what a surprise to see you here,” the Inquisitor greets her, smiling eagerly. “I didn’t think you would be out, I hadn’t seen you at the tavern yet, even at Haven.”

“Oh, no, I was usually, um, helping the Commander,” she answers. Bron stops beside her, still staring down with a wide smile on his face as she speaks. “I wanted to buy Dorian a drink, though, after he saved my life at Haven. Please, join us, we can grab a table -”

“Oh, we have one over here, why don’t you join us, my lady?” he gestures behind him to where Iron Bull is sitting with Krem, and Cecilia’s stomach twists with excitement.

“Dorian, why don’t you -” she turns to invite him but sees him frowning and pushing himself off his stool. “Dorian, are you leaving?”

“I was going to, yes. You’ve got your friends -”

“No, Dorian,” she grabs his hand and smiles at him. “You’re my friend. Please, come join us.” She looks over her shoulder at the Inquisitor and sees his cheeks flexing as he stares into his tankard, frowning. It hits her suddenly, the fact she keeps forgetting. He’s a Templar, and the idea of drinking with a Tevinter mage must be making him more than a little nervous and angry.

“I’m not certain that’s -” Dorian begins to say.

“Well if you’re staying here, so am I,” she insists, and tugs his hand to pull him back onto his stool. She turns a wide-eyed expression to Bron, pouting her lips slightly. “After all, Dorian is the one I’m here with. Another time, Inquisitor.”

“I – Dorian, would you care to join us?” Bron says after a moment staring between his tankard and Cecilia’s pout, but he doesn’t do more than glance briefly at Dorian as he extends the invitation.

After a moment of staring at Cecilia and the Inquisitor, Dorian nods and picks up his goblet. “My lady, if you would,” he offers Cecilia his arm and she takes it with a giggle.

Bron almost scowls as he leads them over to the table with Bull and Krem, and Cecilia frowns when she sees it, trying to determine why. He caved, when she had said she wouldn’t join them, but he still seems irritated to have the Tevinter joining them. He’s glancing at where Cecilia is holding Dorian’s arm, and she finds herself wishing she could make him forget he’s a Templar for just one evening. It’s going to be irritating if he keeps glaring at the man she’s trying to befriend.

Cecilia tightens her arm in Dorian’s, and determines to try to make them all get along. She’s handled dignitaries who acted like divas, but with this group – she knows all of their personalities except for the Inquisitor, and knows how to get them talking.

Still, she maneuvers Dorian to make certain he sits beside Bull, knowing that they’ll talk even if it’s mostly quips about Tevinter and the Qun. Bron shuffles and makes certain that he’s on Cecilia’s other side, even though she was trying to sit beside Varric so that she could ask him about Hawke.

Again she frowns, but brushes it off. Instead she begins to facilitate conversation, introducing herself, offering to buy the next round, asking them to tell her stories of their exploits. The alcohol she drank with Dorian was stronger than she had expected, and it’s taken the edge off the nerves she usually experiences in situations like this.

It’s odd to be here, sitting in the tavern with these characters she knows and loves – only they’re not fictional. She frequently has to bite her tongue to keep from revealing information she hasn’t been told yet, to avoid revealing herself. But they’re all laughing, they’re talking with her, and it’s surreal to feel like a part of this group.

And soon Dorian seems more relaxed, speaking with Bull as well as Krem and Cecilia. The Inquisitor frequently tries to break into the conversation to speak with her, asking her questions about her new position and translating languages. Every time she speaks, he watches her avidly, smiling and hanging on her every word. When she speaks with Dorian, he’s quick to try to get her attention again by asking her a question.

She’s beginning to wonder a bit if he thinks he needs to keep her away from the Tevinter mage, but she does her best to try to get them talking as well, even if both seem reluctant.

 

* * *

 

“Is that a priority, Commander?” Leliana asks, frowning as she walks beside him out of the war room.

“Do you think having a lot of pregnant and ill soldiers or babies born in Skyhold is going to help the Inquisition?” Cullen points out.

“That’s a fair point,” the spymaster concedes. “But surely there are other herbs we need to find, that are more -”

“It’s something the Inquisition needs,” Cullen interrupts, his tone firm and final. “Do you really think, especially with the tavern already established and the high level of stress in the ranks that they won’t already be finding a chance?”

“You make a fair point, as I said,” she almost smiles, a rare sight in the spymaster. Her eyes twinkle when she glances sideways at Cullen, and he tries to pointedly avoid her gaze. She’s an excellent spymaster, and the look in her eyes seems to be implying something. He rubs the back of his neck, remembering that he hasn’t exactly insisted Cecilia be quiet when he’s taken her – in fact he’d encouraged the opposite. Leliana is tactful, though, and doesn’t say anything about it directly. “You know, in the meantime, perhaps we should contact a merchant and try to buy some until we have a steady supply. It will take some weeks for the scouts to collect it, and after all – that’s quite a long time, for some.”

“Excellent idea,” Cullen nods, but he chafes slightly under the heavily hinting tone of her voice. “We should try to find the other healing herbs requested by Adan as well, while we’re at it.”

“Yes, of course, Commander,” she agrees, and again her voice sounds full of implication. “I thought that went without saying. Unless witherstalk sap is the most important priority at the moment?”

Cullen clears his throat and looks away from her, his jaw clenching. “No, of course not -”

“I’ll see what we can do,” Leliana chuckles softly and turns to head to her tower.

Cullen shakes his head and sighs as he exits the keep, thinking that he needs to try to find somewhere else for him and Cecilia to stay instead of the tent. He loses himself in thought as he crosses the courtyard and makes his way to the tent, and he’s surprised when he opens the flaps to find that Cecilia isn’t there. He frowns but realizes she must be at the bathhouse, and he begins to strip out of his armor.

He’s exhausted after trying to organize their forces and Skyhold all day, as well as the small band of soldiers he had sent to the nearby village. Stripping down to his shirt and breeches he stretches and wanders to the small makeshift desk he has in the tent. He begins to pore over the reports there, intending to wait for her to return.

When more than enough time has passed for her to be at the bathhouse, he sets his report down and looks around. It isn’t like her to wander, and he almost begins to worry about her. After a moment’s indecision he stands from his desk and leaves the tent, hesitating before he starts to walk through the courtyard.

He checks the bathhouse first, but sees no sign of her. He continues through the courtyard, thinking, and he passes the tavern. It’s loud, and bustling, and he hates the idea of searching through the crowd for her. But he remembers too her fondness for drinking and dancing and thinks that maybe she stepped out while she waited for him.

He heaves a sigh and rubs a hand on the back of his neck before he finally opens the door and pushes through to find her.

It doesn’t take as long as he thinks.

Though crowded, there’s one table that seems to be at the center of a great deal of the commotion. The Bull’s Chargers are there, as well as the Inquisitor, and Varric, the elf Sera, the Tevinter mage who saved Celia’s life, and there, squeezed in the middle, is her.

She’s laughing, listening to something the Tevinter is saying, leaning across him to speak to Bull, and the large Qunari laughs after she’s finished speaking. She takes a drink from her goblet, and the Inquisitor leans down from where he sits beside her to whisper something in her ear. He’s smiling at her, and she nods in response but then reaches over to Dorian, tapping his arm and giggling as she tries to get his attention to say something.

The Inquisitor frowns and scoots closer in his chair, putting his arm on the back of hers as he tries to get her attention once more.

Cullen frowns sharply, feeling his insides twist as he sees the way the young man is trying to lean so close to her. He pushes through the crowd, hardly noticing the way his soldiers who spot him try to straighten and greet him, looking nervously at his scowl as if they think they’re in trouble.

“Celia,” he calls when he reaches the table, and she looks up instantly at the sound of his voice.

A bright smile comes across her face and she hops up, pushing her chair back and brushing by Bron so that she can circle the table.

“Cullen!” she giggles and hurries to step into his arms, throwing her own around his neck. “Come join us, they’re telling the best stories, I -”

“I’d – I’d rather not, I’d rather you came back -”

“Oh just one, please?” she bats her eyelashes at him, still smiling sweetly. “You never take a break.”

He smirks despite himself. “Of course I do, just not with anyone but you.”

Her cheeks flush and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth as she looks down. “I – I was just thinking maybe you could use some fun.”

Still smirking he leans down until his mouth is right next to her ear. “I have my own ideas on that. Come along, Celia, let’s go.”

He glances past her and sees Dorian nodding at him with his eyebrows raised before he returns to his conversation with Bull, and Bron is staring at the tankard in his hands with a deep frown on his face.

“I – let me say goodbye to Dorian, at least,” she says, and then turns and hurries back around the table. She whispers something in the Tevinter’s ear and then presses a quick kiss to his cheek. He reaches up and squeezes her hand where she has it resting on his shoulder, smiling as he nods and replies. With another giggle she straightens and waves goodbye before she begins to head back to where Cullen is standing.

The Inquisitor looks up and tries to stop her with a hand, but he moves too late and she reaches Cullen uninterrupted, and seems not to have noticed the attempt. Cullen frowns at the young man, though, and watches as he hangs his head, shooting furtive glances at where Cecilia has rejoined Cullen and taken his hand.

“All right, let’s go,” she smiles up at him and begins to lead him through the crowd. He holds her hand tightly, not wanting to be separated but also just enjoying the feeling of her hand in his.

He’s never held hands with someone like this, especially not in front of anyone else.

But Cecilia moves through the crowd as if it’s perfectly natural, and when they reach the door and leave the tavern she waits for him to fall into step with her. She wraps her arm around his waist, tucking herself against his side as they walk to the tent.

“I hope I didn’t worry you, I didn’t think I’d be this late,” she says. “I wanted to buy Dorian a drink as a thank you for saving my life, and then everyone else was there and it just – I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”

“It’s – it’s all right, you don’t need to apologize,” he tells her, almost feeling sheepish for how he had come to fetch her from the tavern. “I just – I wanted to go to sleep, and I wanted to make certain you came back all right.”

She giggles but doesn’t say anything, as if she doesn’t quite believe his answer.

When they reach the tent she steps out of his arms and begins to strip out of her clothes, but once naked she doesn’t pull on the sleeping shirt she usually wears. Instead she crawls into the sleeping roll and then looks up at him expectantly.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to go to sleep?” she smiles, and wiggles her eyebrows at him.

She’s there, waiting for him like it’s so natural, like her lying naked in the sleeping roll for him to join her is an everyday occurrence. Again he’s overwhelmed by the realization that with her, this feels right, it feels like everything he wants. Everything he denied himself, but everything he secretly always wanted.

He strips out of his own clothes and hears her make a soft hum when he pulls his breeches off and his hard cock bounces slightly as he moves to throw his breeches aside. When he looks at her, she’s staring at him and licking her lips.

And then he remembers, all of Skyhold is out of witherstalk sap.

“Come here,” she purrs, and she sits up and holds her arms out.

He takes a deep breath and goes to join her on the sleeping roll, but before he can say anything she slips her arms around him and rolls him toward her.

“Cullen,” she sighs. “Kiss me. I’ve been thinking about you since earlier, when you kissed me. It was – no one’s ever kissed me like that. Kiss me again, please.”

It’s the please that does it.

He moans her name softly and kisses her, slanting his mouth against hers and clutching her to him. They kiss for what feels like an eternity, hands wandering over each other but never breaking their kiss. She wraps her arms around him and he rolls until he’s on top of her, her legs wrapped around his.

“Wait, Celia – we’re – we’re out of witherstalk,” he pulls away from the kiss finally. “We shouldn’t, we -”

But even as he says it he runs his hands along her thighs and holds them more securely around him. She presses soft kisses to his neck, running her tongue up it before she trails kisses along his jaw.

“Celia, I -” he says one last time, but it’s not her he’s struggling with. He’s warring with himself, knowing that he shouldn’t risk it, that he needs to be more careful than he has been. The way that he’s holding her and laying, though, places him right against the wet heat he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about all day.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck and hardly shifts at all until he slides into her and they both groan. He whispers her name and keeps his face against her hot skin as he begins moving, feeling like a man possessed as he thrusts slowly into her.

Each of his movements within her is bliss, and he keeps his body pressed flush against hers as he thrusts. She’s making soft cries and moans, whispering his name and other half-started sentences that sound like she’s begging him. He grabs one of her wrists and pins it above her head, holding it there tightly as he jerks his hips a bit more forcefully into hers.

He’s still amazed at how quickly she seems to be able to find her release, and after what seems like no time at all she arches her back and cries out as he feels her throb around him.

“Cullen – god, you’re so good,” she whispers when she finishes and goes limp.

He chuckles and presses kisses to her face. “I’m not done with you yet.”

She bites her lip and looks up at him eagerly, tightening her legs around him and slipping her free hand into his hair. “Please, please -”

He grabs her other wrist and pins it as well, bracing himself as he holds her wrists above her and quickens his pace. She cries out with every thrust, her noises a staccato that matches the sound of his hips slapping against hers as he tries to push her to the edge again.

When she comes undone a second time she cries out more loudly, and he briefly remembers the way Leliana had looked at him earlier when discussing the witherstalk.

He finds he doesn’t care as he watches Cecilia lose herself beneath him, her delicate wrists pinned by his large hands above her head. As soon as she collapses once more, her head lolling on the pillow beneath her as she tries to catch her breath, he groans and pulls himself from her. He watches with odd, possessive pride as he spills his release on her stomach with his hand, taking immense pleasure in the sight of it on her pale flesh. He finally lets go of her other wrist and sits back on his heels, trying to catch his breath as he stares down at her.

She’s flushed, dewy with sweat and covered in his seed, her eyes half-lidded as she bites her pink and swollen lips. All he can think as he looks at her is that _he_ did that to her, and when she smiles up at him his heart races even faster than it already was.

He forgets the feelings that were tying his stomach into knots as he watched the men in the tavern trying to get her attention, as the Inquisitor tried to pull her back for conversation.

Instead he sees her laying beneath him, exhausted and spent from pleasure he gave her, bearing his release on her stomach as if claimed by it, and he smiles.


	24. With You

“How did he let you get away?”

“Hmmm?”

She feels him shift behind her, his arms tightening around her, and for a moment she wonders if she imagined him speaking.

“I – apologies, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says and presses a kiss to the back of her head.

“It’s okay, I wasn’t asleep yet,” she mutters.

“O K?”

“Erm, all right. It’s another way of saying it’s all right.”

He chuckles softly and she feels him snuggle his nose against her hair. “So many words, so much I don’t understand about you,” he murmurs. “And yet -”

But he trails off, and after a long pause she raises a hand to where his arm is wrapped around her and gently strokes his skin. “And yet what?”

“I – I’ve never felt this comfortable with anyone, Celia,” he confesses, so quietly she almost doesn’t hear him. “And I know so little about you. I don’t even know where you came from, who you were before, what your life was like.”

For a moment, she considers telling him.

But she also finds herself terrified that it will be the end of everything if she does. She isn’t quite sure why, since there’s no reason to suspect that it would anger him. Except that she knew of him before they met, and she hopes that he won’t be scared off if she admits it. If she ever finds a way to explain it, that is.

“I just – I wonder how you got here, and why the Maker brought you to me,” he continues when she doesn’t say anything. “How – how in Thedas did your betrothed let you go? I still can’t wrap my head around how anyone could have a mistress when they had you.”

She nuzzles her face against the pillow, uncomfortable feelings coming to the surface at his words. It’s something she’s asked herself often. She’s missing her old life less and less, though mostly because she avoids thinking about it. But occasionally she muses bitterly over the events that are still pricking her heart painfully.

Even though it led her here, and she isn’t sure she’d rather be anywhere else.

She’s in his arms, warm, content, and feeling more cared for than she can remember feeling before. Deep inside her something is taking root, something she isn’t sure she even ever felt for her fiancé.

And it both terrifies and exhilarates her.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “I – that sounded better in my head, I realize that’s probably painful. You – you loved him, didn’t you?”

“I -” she hesitates, thinking how to explain it. “I thought I did. I’m wondering now, I – I don’t know if I’ve ever really been in love. I don’t think I could call what he and I had love. Not really.”

“It must have been something close to it, once, if you were going to marry him.”

“Maybe,” she sighs. “It was so long ago, I don’t even remember what I thought about when he asked me.”

“How long were you betrothed?”

“Four years, almost.”

“That – seems like a long time.”

“I suppose,” she rubs her cheek against the pillow again, trying to fight the feelings she doesn’t want to feel.

Inadequacy. Betrayal. Heartbreak. And the odd longing inside her that she doesn’t want to feel, but that her heart insists on feeling anyway.

“When did you discover that he was – I – I’m sorry, we don’t have to talk about this,” he sounds awkward, and she can tell he’s nuzzling his face against the pillow and her hair just like she did moments ago.

“Right before I ended up here,” she says, and her heart begins to race uncomfortably as they get closer to talking about the truth. She isn’t sure she’s ready to say it, but she isn’t sure she can resist if he asks her directly.

“It was that recent?” he asks, and she can almost hear the frown in his voice.

“Yes,” she breathes. “I – I left. And then I was here. I can’t explain it.”

“You said you were in an accident,” he muses slowly. “He – he didn’t do anything to hurt you, did he? He’s not -”

“No, no nothing like that,” she hurries to assure him. “I was traveling and I was in an accident.”

“Traveling? Did you – you didn’t look like you’d been riding a horse, how were you -”

“Um, a car – a cart. That’s the easiest way to explain it.”

Her heart is still pounding, and she bites her lip as the silence stretches on. He rolls onto his back behind her, and she glances over her shoulder to see him staring above him, looking like he’s thinking.

“And you don’t remember anything about how you ended up outside Haven?” he finally asks.

“No, I don’t,” she murmurs.

“Do you think your betrothed is looking for you?”

“He might be, but – he won’t find me here,” she shrugs and turns her head, no longer wanting to watch him try to figure it all out. She’s still too anxious that telling him will somehow ruin everything.

“If he did -”

“He won’t, there’s no reason to think like that,” she insists.

“I was just going to say, if he did – I wouldn’t let him take you back. Not unless you wanted to go with him.”

He says it quietly, and for a moment she stares at the canvas of the tent beside her. After a pause she rolls over and props herself above him, staring down at him. “I – I wouldn’t want to, Cullen,” she confesses softly. “I want to stay here, with you.”

She hasn’t let herself even think it until now, but here she is saying it to him.

If she could go back, she wouldn’t.

He stares at her for a moment, and then wraps his arms tightly around her and pulls her down onto his chest. “I want you to as well, beloved.”

The word almost brings tears to her eyes, and she snuggles herself more closely into his embrace, at a loss for words.

 

 

 

“Ah, Cecilia, excellent,” Josephine looks up from the makeshift desk she’s managed to put together to work from. “We already have so much to do, and I – can you read and write Common now as well? I need some transcribing done.”

“I know I can read it,” Cecilia answers and she pulls a stool to the desk beside Josephine. “I suppose let’s see if I can write it too.”

It’s her first day with the Ambassador, and she sits straight on the stool and tries to hold herself as dignified as possible as she reaches for a quill. Josephine hands her the wooden plank she always carries, and Cecilia writes a simple sentence across a bit of parchment that’s blank.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Josephine says as she reaches for her notes once more. “If you don’t mind, here’s some parchment and a quill, and ink – we have so many missives to send. The Inquisitor is looking to find an ally to get us near the Empress of Orlais, but we need to send her a message to try to warn her…”

The Ambassador continues talking, her rapid speech accented by her handing Cecilia everything she needs to transcribe messages and take notes. It takes her a bit to get used to writing with a quill and ink, but once she gets the hang of it she takes careful dictation from Josephine. She isn’t sure how long they work, drafting missives and making notes on which nobles have offered aid to the Inquisition and who still needs convincing.

Cecilia begins work on writing invitations to visit Skyhold and the Inquisition, repeating the same invitation to a long list of nobles Josephine provides her, and she writes until her hand begins to cramp. She sets her quill down and flexes her fingers, looking around the drafty room they’re sitting in.

It’s funny, seeing Skyhold in such a state for so long. It always seemed in the game that suddenly it was all mostly fixed within a few days, but now she’s seeing it happen in real time. She should have realized how long it took for the Inquisition to get on its feet and settled, and how long they worked in these conditions.

“I’m terribly sorry, I’m working you to the bone on your first day,” Josephine says suddenly and Cecilia glances at her. The Ambassador is smiling a little hesitantly, looking embarrassed. “There’s just so much to do and it’s nice to have someone to help -”

“Please, Ambassador, don’t worry about it,” Cecilia hurries to assure her. “It’s just been a while since I wrote this much by hand. I’m – I’m enjoying working again, though.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” Josephine smiles. “I worried maybe you felt like I forced you into it, and the Commander seemed less than pleased -”

She stops when Cecilia giggles and shakes her head. “Oh he was fine with it, he just – I think he thought I would still be following him around here now too, like I did at Haven.”

Josephine giggles as well and then glances around to make sure none of the nearby scouts can hear. “I take it you two – that is, I thought maybe it seemed like you and he are – infatuated with one another?”

Cecilia smiles and hangs her head, feeling herself blush. “I – yes, that’s one way to put it,” she answers.

“May I ask – you want that, yes?”

Cecilia raises her gaze again, frowning at the other woman when she sees concern on her face. “I – what do you mean, Ambassador?”

“Well, he was looking out for you, he was protecting you and trying to ascertain if you were a threat, and now,” Josephine pauses as if trying to think how to phrase it. “It wasn’t – he didn’t -”

“Oh! No,” she shakes her head adamantly. “No, no, Ambassador. It’s definitely – we both wanted to – we are _both_ interested.”

“I suppose spending that much time together as you did, it makes sense,” Josephine nods and then smiles. “I’m relieved, I was almost worried maybe…well, I had no reason to, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Thank you, Jose – Ambassador,” she smiles.

“You can call me Josephine, Cecilia,” the other woman smiles more brightly. “After all, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”

Cecilia giggles. “Thank you, Josephine,” she says. “And I think that was what made Cullen concerned. He said he didn’t want to share, I think he fears we’ll both work too much and never see one another.”

“Well, you’ll be attending some war councils with me, and functions, and speaking with dignitaries,” Josephine shrugs. “You may end up getting sick of one another, considering how much time you’ll spend working together now.”

 

_Not likely._

 

She smiles at the memory of him calling her ‘beloved’ the night before and looks down, picking her quill up again to continue drafting the invitations to Skyhold.

Being useful again feels wonderful.

 

* * *

 

Cullen walks along the battlements beside Rylen, both men inspecting the damage and state of things.

“Considering how long this has been abandoned, it’s in incredible condition,” Rylen remarks as they open the door to yet another tower.

This one has three doors, but when Cullen walks to the window he sees that it’s situated with a clear vantage point of the gates into Skyhold. And one of the doors leads to the keep, which would make getting to war councils easier.

He frowns and looks around the room, noticing a ladder near one of the doors. Placing a hand on one of the rungs he tests its sturdiness and glances up, trying to determine what it leads to.

“A loft? Second floor maybe?” Rylen says, coming to stand beside Cullen and staring up as well.

“I suppose I’ll find out,” Cullen mutters and climbs up the ladder.

It’s a loft, large enough to fit furniture, including a large bed. The walls and windows are in good condition, as is the floor, but when he glances up he sees that there’s a hole in the roof.

She might not like that, but otherwise – it’s almost perfect.

“What’s the verdict, Commander?” Rylen calls from below.

“A loft,” Cullen replies, placing his aching hands on his sword and looking around. “This is – a most advantageous tower, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, there’s easy access, the view is excellent from the window, and if that loft is as large as I think it is – well, quite convenient, wouldn’t you say?” Rylen muses, his voice carrying up to Cullen as both men pace around the different floors of the tower.

“Send some men to bring my things,” Cullen decides, and he descends the ladder once more. “I think this will make an excellent office.”

“And the – uh, the lady Cecilia’s things as well, I’m assuming?” Rylen asks tentatively.

Cullen nods and notices his second simply salutes and leaves the room to follow his orders without making further comment.

Maybe Celia was right about the way he had been looking at Cassandra, and Cullen had misunderstood the other man’s intentions.

That line of thought leads to the tavern the night before, and as he paces the tower room he mulls over the interactions of the other men around Celia.

Dorian hadn’t seemed interested at all, even after she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. In fact, he had been so indifferent that Cullen hadn’t cared about the affection she had shown him, which was odd to him considering how he felt to see her _near_ other people usually.

The Inquisitor, on the other hand, had again seemed overeager. At first, Cullen had thought that perhaps that was just the young man’s attitude, considering how eager he was to speak with Cullen as well. But the disappointed frown he had seen on the Inquisitor’s face after watching Celia smile and greet Cullen so fondly had made him realize it had to be something more. His lurking suspicions seemed to have been correct.

He isn’t trying to hide his relationship with Celia, but he also isn’t trying to flaunt it for everyone to discuss and comment on. Every time he watches another man smile and look her up and down, though, he wonders whether or not he should start to display it more openly. 

He hadn’t been certain what they were to one another until the previous night, when she had softly confessed that she would stay with him even if she had a chance to go back to her own land. Her words had had a profound effect on him, and he realized just how deeply he already cared for her.

“Commander?”

He turns around at the greeting and sees the Inquisitor standing in the doorway, looking around the dusty tower room. “Yes, Inquisitor, is there something I can help you with?”

“I – uh, I had a – something I wanted to ask you,” the younger man begins hesitantly, clasping his hands behind his back as he strides slowly into the room.

“Of course, Inquisitor, how can I help?” Cullen rests his hands on the pommel of his sword, trying to ignore the way that they’re aching. They’ve been worse lately, but he focuses his mind and does his best to disregard the pain.

“The – Lady Cecilia seems like an – an exceptional woman,” Bron says as he stops and looks around the tower room. “I couldn’t help but notice, though, is she – that is to say, are you and she – attached?”

Cullen raises his eyebrows, appreciating the younger man’s candor. “Yes, we are.”

The Inquisitor’s cheeks clench and he looks down, nodding sadly. “I see,” he sighs. “I suppose – I didn't know, I thought you were just her guardian, and I – I thought maybe…” He trails off and bounces slightly as he looks to the side, not facing Cullen.

“I am that as well, considering she’s unfamiliar with our land. But yes, we are, as you said, attached,” Cullen tells him, trying to put it gently. He can tell the poor lad is upset by the news, and he wonders at how quickly he formed such a deep infatuation with her.

Then again, isn’t that exactly what he had done?

Bron stands for a moment, staring at nothing, looking as if he’s considering something. “Why did you leave the Order?”

Cullen tightens his hands on his sword, frowning. “I could no longer be a part of what it had become, not after – not after everything that has happened, everything I witnessed.”

“Did you – did you also desire things outside of the Order’s rules, outside of that life?”

“I – I suppose I desired them, but I knew it was my duty to keep my vows, to devote my life to the path I had chosen.”

“Those desires – were they a part of why you left?” Bron looks up at him wide-eyed and curious, and it suddenly strikes Cullen just how young he really is.

“In a way, they may have been,” Cullen admits after a long moment. “I gave so much of my life to the Order, and I suppose – maybe I found myself wondering just how much more I was willing to give up.”

“Do you think it’s possible to have both?”

“I – it could be. But there will always be an imbalance, between duty and desire,” Cullen shrugs. “And when you’re with the Order, duty must always come first.”

Bron nods sadly. “I – I was young when I joined the Order, I didn’t think much of what I wanted in the future. I thought I would be happy with duty. But now, for the first time, I’m – I suppose I’m realizing what I agreed to give up.”

They’re silent for several moments before Cullen walks forward and places a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “There are other ways to serve, other ways to protect as I know you’ve said you want to. Your work as Inquisitor is one of those ways, and much more important than your work with the Order. If – if you considered giving it up, you would have the full support of the Inquisition.”

Bron looks up at him, frowning but also looking grateful. “I’ll – I’ll take that under advisement.” He nods, almost smiling finally, and then turns as if to leave.

The door opens and Cecilia stops in the doorway. “Oh, I’m sorry, I can wait,” she says, turning back the way she came.

“No, please, my lady, I was just going,” Bron bows slightly. “Thank you, Commander, for speaking with me, and for your honesty.”

Cecilia and Bron pass one another as she walks toward Cullen, and the Inquisitor looks over his shoulder to watch her, frowning before he closes the door behind him. When Cecilia sees Cullen’s own frown she looks at the door that was just closed.

“Something the matter?” she asks.

“No,” he answers, quickly smiling down at her instead. “I thought you’d be with Josephine.”

“I’m taking a quick break. Rylen came by and told me my things were being moved out of the tent since you chose an office,” she grins, a twinkle in her honey eyes as she looks around the tower room. She begins to walk across it, looking out the window and then to the ladder. “I take it this is it?”

“Yes,” he follows her to the ladder. “If you’d like, I can show you the rest.”

She giggles and grabs the rungs of the ladder, pulling herself onto it. When she reaches the top she turns on the spot and looks around, and he quickly follows her up.

“I like it,” she says, and he notices an odd catch in her voice.

He frowns and looks around, wondering if maybe she thinks it’s dirty or derelict. “I – we’ll get it cleaned up, and get some actual furniture in here for us, but -”

“For us?” she turns to face him, her eyebrows raised and her eyes almost sparkling with emotion.

“Well, yes,” he shrugs and takes a few steps until he’s standing before her. “I mean, I guess that is if you want to stay here. I just assumed that you would -”

When she doesn’t answer and instead just stares up at him, he clears his throat and looks around. “Celia, I – I want you here. With me.”

She steps forward into his arms and twists her fingers into his mantle, pulling him down to her height. “I’d like that. It’s perfect, Cullen,” she tells him, and he can’t figure out why she almost looks like she wants to cry as she kisses him.


	25. Deserving

It’s all come rushing back, after a few months of relative peace.

His hands won’t stop shaking, his head throbbing, and even with her in his arms his sleep is disrupted as the nightmares have returned in force.

The respite he’d been experiencing seems to be over, and as his work load and stress around Skyhold increases, so do the symptoms of his withdrawal.

He’s not quite sure how to explain it, or what exactly may have caused it. Nothing has reminded him of it, because Celia has even stopped asking questions about his scars, though she still presses kisses to them when he holds her. He’s been eating better and sleeping more, since she gently reminds him to do both, even with the hectic schedule she's kept with Josephine for the last two weeks.

Yet still, now he can’t go five minutes without having to steady himself and try to stop his hands shaking. He almost wonders if it’s because more of his time is spent in his office, working on reports and requisitions, directing the entirety of the Inquisition’s forces instead of being on the training grounds with the recruits. Something about overseeing training was focusing, oddly relaxing, as if he felt comfortable in his element.

Now, reading reports and listening to briefings, there’s too much time to think, too much time to remember.

Whenever his mind tries to bombard him with memories, he tries instead to think about Celia, about when she’ll join him in the evening and how she’ll smile at him. So many of their recent nights she’s simply held him to her, since he’s been in pain and trying to be more careful until the witherstalk arrives.

Several times he’s been unable to resist, taking her hard and fast as if he can erase the memories through his movements within her. She’s always eager, always responding to his passion with her own, and he’s consistently in awe of the way she looks at him when he leans in to kiss her, or moves above her. When he woke her up one night after he had a nightmare, she had readily rolled onto her stomach and moaned softly as he took her desperately, finishing before she could. He had apologized, but she had simply pressed kisses to his face and coaxed him back to sleep, holding him to her breasts and stroking his hair.

More and more, he’s beginning to wonder what he did to deserve her.

The office is finally furnished, the loft cleaned and containing simple furniture for them. It’s odd to him, sharing a living space with a woman, since he hasn’t lived beside anyone this intimately since he was a child and shared with his siblings. Living with someone this way feels so different from the barracks, and he tries to make sure that his things are stored and arranged neatly, trying simple things to make her happy.

His worries that he wouldn’t see her as much now that they’re both so busy have yet to come to fruition. She shadows Josephine closely, including to war councils, and he sees her several times throughout the day. When she thinks no one is looking she shoots him smiles and winks, and once or twice has pursed her lips as if blowing him a kiss. The simple gestures always do much to improve his mood, and he wonders if she knows just how much she’s helping him by simply being herself and showing him affection whenever they’re near one another.

Every chance he gets he pulls her around corners or into deserted rooms to steal kisses from her, and she never reprimands him. Instead she wraps her arms around him, kissing him eagerly as if they haven’t kissed for days – even if it’s only been an hour. In those moments, the withdrawal is slightly more bearable.

But after two weeks of trying to hide the signs from her, he finally slips up one evening when he doesn’t expect her.

His head has been killing him all day, his hands shaking more than usual, and he pulls his gloves off and rests his forehead against his fists, trying to take deep breaths. He wishes elfroot could help, but Adan hasn’t been able to find anything so far that could ease the aches for longer than an hour.

“Cullen? Are you all right?”

He looks up at the sound of her voice, realizing he hadn’t heard her enter the office. She’s standing on the other side of the desk, leaning her hands on it as she peers at him, frowning.

“You – you don’t look well, are you feeling sick?” she asks when he doesn’t answer.

“I’m – I’m fine Celia,” he quickly lies, clearing his throat and sitting straighter. “It’s just been a long day.”

She hums sympathetically and slowly walks around the desk, leaning against its edge and running her fingers through his hair. “Can I get you anything? Do you need some elfroot or maybe some food? Have you eaten?”

“I’m – Maker, you’re too thoughtful,” he sighs, almost annoyed by how kind she is. “I’m fine, Celia. Thank you though.”

“You don’t look fine,” she tells him, and she runs the back of her hand on his forehead. “You feel feverish, and you look pale. Maybe you should go to sleep -”

“No, Celia, I’m fine,” he snaps, pulling away from her hand.

He instantly regrets it, and when he looks up at her he sees her eyebrows raised and her lips pursed as she looks at him. But he doesn’t know how to apologize without telling her what’s wrong, and he’s scared she’ll leave if he confesses it to her.

She can’t possibly understand, she can’t possibly still want him if she knew everything. It’s his burden to bear, and he needs to bear it alone.

“Clearly you’re _fine_ if you’re speaking to me like that,” she says after a moment, her voice flat. “Since you don’t need me and I only seem to be irritating you, I’ll be at the tavern. I’ll see you later.”

She pushes herself off the desk and walks around it, crossing the office with her nose slightly in the air.

“Wait, beloved, Celia, I’m – I’m sorry,” he pushes himself out of his chair and hurries to her, grabbing her arm to stop her from leaving. “I’m – I’m not feeling well and I just – I hate feeling like you have to take care of me. I should be able to…to deal with this on my own.”

She stares up at him, as if considering. “Deal with what, Cullen? If you’re sick, let me take care of you. Let me help you. But don’t take it out on me, that’s not fair.”

“I – I know. I’m sorry,” he sighs and rubs his eyes, releasing her arm and avoiding her gaze. “I just -” But he shakes his head and continues to look away from her, unable to bring himself to say the words.

“Cullen?” her voice is soft, and he feels her move closer, one hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “I wish you would tell me what’s wrong. I – I can tell something’s the matter, you haven’t seemed yourself for weeks.”

“I’m -”

“If you say ‘fine’ again I’m walking out the door,” she sighs.

He chuckles despite himself, knowing that she would do it. “I’ll manage, is that better?” he says and finally glances down at her.

There’s concern evident in her furrowed brows and the pout of her lips, and her honey gold eyes move rapidly over his face as she tries to evaluate him now that she’s standing closer. “Will you let me help you manage?” she asks. “If you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong, you can at least tell me how you’re feeling. I can help the symptoms without knowing the cause, but only if you tell me. Please, Cullen.”

He groans, knowing that he’ll cave, knowing that the sweet way she says please will be his undoing every time. “I – fin -” he stops himself and glances at her to see her eyebrows raised as she catches him sighing the word she threatened to walk out over. “Thank you, Celia,” he says instead.

“Why don’t you start with taking off your armor? It must be stifling you, here,” she takes his hand and guides him to his chair, and she sits in front of him on his desk. Working one buckle at a time she begins to pull him out of his armor, and he resigns himself to sitting still and letting her.

She sets each piece on the floor gently, and when he opens his mouth she presses a finger to it. “We can put them on your stand later. Right now, you need to relax. And since you won’t go up to bed -”

“I still have work to do -”

“Then I have to help you here.”

He frowns but doesn’t try to protest again, since he knows it won’t do any good. She stays on the desk in front of him and gently coaxes his head forward until it’s hanging loosely on his shoulders.

“Just breathe deeply, Cullen,” she murmurs, and she begins to run her fingers down his neck, pressing into his muscles and looking for knots and kinks.

He groans, the pressure she’s placing on his muscles feeling like ecstasy. She slips her hands under the collar of his shirt and rubs his shoulders, pinching them tightly until he moans, the pain and pleasure blending together as he feels the tension slowly leaving him.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” she asks softly.

“N-no, Celia, this feels – please keep going,” he moans.

She does, rubbing the tension out of his neck and shoulders until he’s certain her fingers have to be aching from her attentive ministrations. He rests his hands on the desk, cupping her rear and rubbing circles on her hips with his thumbs. After what seems like an eternity of bliss she encourages him to lift his head again, and she slides her fingers to his temples and begins to rub them.

“You’ve been frowning like you have a headache,” she murmurs.

“Always,” he sighs. “This – Celia, you don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” she leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I wish I could do more for you. You work so hard, Cullen. You’re – you deserve to feel taken care of.”

Her words tug at something deep inside him, and he can’t shake the feelings they stir within him.

He should tell her.

He can’t.

But for the first time, he wants to, and he thinks maybe she would understand.

“You’re more than I deserve,” he breathes.

“I doubt that,” she presses another kiss to his forehead. “Feeling a bit better?”

“Much, thank you,” he takes her hands in his and holds her fingers to his lips to kiss, making certain he reaches every single one of them. “I should get back to work.”

She giggles slightly, pulling her fingers from his grasp and raking them through his hair. “I suppose you should,” she says slowly.

He turns a frown to her and sees a wicked gleam in her eyes, and before he can say anything she slides off the desk to the floor, kneeling between his legs.

“Celia -” he begins to say, but his eyes are riveted to her, unable to tear away.

Her fingers are at the laces of his breeches and she licks her lips as she focuses on her task, and he suddenly finds his mouth dry and no words come to him. He remembers the dreams he had, the fantasies that occupied his mind every time he looked at her full lips for months but that he hadn’t ever been able to put into words.

And now, he hasn’t had to vocalize them for them to come true.

She pulls him free of his breeches, biting her lip slightly when she sees how hard he already is just from her massages and nearness.

“You should try to get some work done, Commander,” she says, holding his gaze as she wraps her fingers around his shaft. “After all, you still have quite a bit to do. Don’t mind me.”

She leans forward, her eyes still fixed on his as she parts her glistening lips and takes the tip of him into her mouth.

He moans and grips the arms of his chair tightly, struggling to keep his eyes open so that he can watch her.

It’s intoxicating, the feeling of her wet mouth around him, her full lips stretched by his size. She’s still peering up at him, her eyes hinting with a smile as she runs her tongue over his slit and sucks intently at the tip of him.

“Maker – Celia -”

She sucks once more at his tip and then slides her mouth down, taking more of him into her mouth and she _moans_.

The sound and the vibrations it causes around him almost make him lose himself right there, and his head falls back against his chair as he tries to focus himself. But still she’s moving slowly, torturously, taking more and more of him into her mouth each time she bobs her head. She pulls back, sucking hard until she reaches the tip and then removes her mouth with an obscene pop that makes him groan. Twisting her hand around him and then up in a stroke, she leans down and runs her tongue from the base of him along his length before she swirls it around his tip.

She still hasn’t taken her eyes off of his, and he feels himself getting lost in the lustful gleam in her honey depths.

“Celia – I – you’re -” he moans as she slides her mouth down his length once more, taking him farther down her throat. Something clicks in his mind and he slides a hand into her shiny chocolate brown hair, gripping it tightly as he begins to direct her rhythm. She moans in response, and before he can stop himself he purrs, “Good girl,” when she manages to take his length down her throat to the hilt.

The noise that greets his words makes him throb, and he glances down to see her staring up at him eagerly, sucking harder at him as he continues to direct her.

It only encourages him more, and soon he’s praising her and saying things he never thought he’d be bold enough to say to anyone outside of the Blooming Rose. Every time she slides him down her throat he purrs “good girl” and moans, and her fingers tighten where she’s gripping his thighs.

“I’m going to come,” he pants, still directing her bobbing her head along him. “And I – Celia, let me come in your pretty little mouth.”

She slides her mouth up his length and again removes it with a loud, wet pop, and then smiles at him. “Of course you can,” she purrs, and flicks the tip of him with her tongue a few times before she resumes sliding her lips along him.

It’s pure ecstasy, and where he’d thought he’d feel shame for wanting this instead he just feels possessive pride and absolute contentment as he watches his length sliding in and out of her mouth. The sight of her full lips around him is a wish fulfillment he’s thought about for months, and when he finally lets himself come he groans loudly and tightens his hand in her hair. She moans and continues her movements, eagerly swallowing every drop of his release.

When he finally calms he slouches in his chair and releases her hair, his mind blank and his body heavy and tingling with utter contentment.

“Celia, I – I didn’t – I’m sorr -”

“What are you sorry for?” she murmurs and pulls herself to her feet and into his lap. She straddles him, running her fingers into his hair. “Don’t apologize, that was – I enjoyed it.”

She brushes soft kisses to his lips and his face, murmuring sweet words to him as she holds him tightly. “I didn’t make your headache worse, did I?” she finally asks softly.

“No, I – I feel better but honestly now I’m just – I’m just tired,” he sighs.

“You should go to sleep,” she tells him softly. “Skyhold won’t fall apart if you let yourself sleep. You need it.”

He nuzzles his cheek against hers, trying to collect his thoughts and regain his senses. After several moments of silence he nods and hugs her to him. “You’re – you’re right. Maybe I can actually get some sleep now.”

She giggles. “Well, if you can’t, just let me know,” she kisses his forehead. “I may have a few ideas on how I could help you out.”

And she encourages him up to the loft and into bed, holding him to her naked body as she sings softly under her breath. Her voice is sweet, and the words tug at something within him as he listens to her.

" _And I was burnin' up a fever, I didn't care how much how long I lived. But I swear I thought I dreamed her. She never asked me once about the wrong I did. When my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold dark earth. No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her_."

He drifts off, listening to her sing as he falls into the first dreamless sleep he's had in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celia is singing [ "Work Song" by Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nH7bjV0Q_44) because let's be honest, that's almost 100% Cullen's theme song.


	26. Confessions

_It’s raining unnaturally, torrents pouring from a cloudless sky._

_But the sky is green, it’s swirling. She had lived six months in Texas, she knows that green and swirling means a tornado._

_Yet without clouds, how can there be a tornado?_

_She reaches for her phone, she digs in her purse in the seat beside her._

_Lightning is forking across the sky, in intricate patterns she’s never seen before, and the lightning is green like the sky._

_She looks away to see where she’s digging in her bag, just for a second, and when she looks back up something ghostly white and tall runs in front of her and stops._

_She swerves, the car is flipping, she’s jostled, and then falling, surrounded by green and a roar like an explosion –_

_Silence._

_And then a voice, one she hasn’t heard for years._

_“Celia – Celia, kiddo, wake up.”_

_“Mon trésor, wake up, you’re here -”_

Her eyes open wide and she takes a deep breath as if she’s emerging from underwater.

Her whole body is tensed, the muscles in her back and legs feeling as if she’s ready to run, as if someone jumped out and scared her from behind.

A hot, sweaty body is pressed right against hers and she looks around, trying to determine where she is.

There’s a hole in the roof, and she can see – two moons.

Stars.

She looks to her right and sees _him_ , and she lets out her breath in one long exhale.

He’s frowning a little in his sleep, his arm thrown across her as he cuddles himself to her side, his golden curls disheveled and loose. Incoherent mutters and sighs escape his lips, and she watches him for a few moments as she tries to shake the lingering apprehension she feels.

She awoke so suddenly, and she only has vague recollections of what she was dreaming. She remembers voices but…

It must be longing, it must be desire to hear those voices again, even though she never will. That was decided years before she ended up in Thedas.

Cullen’s arm suddenly tightens around her and he groans, twitching slightly.

 

_He must be having bad dreams, too._

 

She turns in his embrace so that she’s facing him, raising one hand to his face and carefully stroking his cheek. Brushing his stubble and sliding her hand into his hair, she softly sings, caressing him lightly and trying to wake him up gently.

“Mon cher?” she whispers. “Mon cœur, mi alma. It’s just a dream, wake up. You’re here with me.”

She's been waiting for this, has been waiting for his withdrawal to get worse. He isn’t aware of how many nights he's awoken her with his dreams, that she's soothed him until he stops frowning and groaning. They have been getting progressively worse the last two weeks, and she's beginning to wonder if it's related to the stress. The Inquisition is in full swing, now, and his duties are beginning to weigh heavily on his shoulders.

She hasn’t had to wake him up fully yet, and she never tells him in the mornings. Instead she simply soothes him each time, until he seems to slip back into deep sleep as she holds him close to her. Tonight she thought maybe he would finally tell her, when she threatened to walk out of the office if he kept snapping at her.

She wants to help him, she wants to soothe him, but not at the cost of being his metaphorical punching bag.

She sighs as she strokes his cheek again, wishing he would tell her. She knows what’s wrong with him, but having to pretend like she doesn’t, like she doesn’t have ideas of how they may help him is beginning to wear on her.

Finally she decides to try waking him from a nightmare, to see if he’ll confide in her if he knows she’s aware of them as well.

It almost feels like a countdown, wondering if he’ll tell her before the day he struggles, the day he begs Cassandra to relieve him from duty.

The day he’ll listen to the Inquisitor’s advice on the matter.

 

_Perseverance._

 

She’s nervous, and partially wondering if she can prevent him ever reaching that point. Will her presence and tenderness help? Will he listen to her, will he tell her and let her share the burden so that he doesn’t feel like he’s breaking under its weight?

He groans again and she leans forward and presses a tender kiss to his forehead. “Tesoro, please, wake up.”

His frown deepens for a second and then he suddenly jerks awake, looking around himself.

“Mon cœur, are you all right?” she murmurs, keeping her hand on his cheek, her thumb lightly stroking his skin. “You seemed like you were having a nightmare.”

He rolls to his back and raises a hand to his eyes, rubbing them with his forefinger and his thumb. “I – I was,” he sighs. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry, Celia, I -”

“It’s all right,” she tells him, pressing a kiss to the scar he has on his shoulder. “It’s – it’s not the first time, I -”

“What?” he turns his head on the pillow to look at her. “I – Have I woken you up before? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just usually try to get you to settle down and go back to sleep, I didn’t think I needed to wake you up -”

“How long have you been doing that?”

“Since – since we started sharing the cot, back at Haven.”

There’s silence as he stares at her, like he’s absorbing her words and thinking through something. “I – I thought I’d been feeling better, I thought maybe they had stopped, but -”

“They – they haven’t. You just usually wake me up, I’m a light sleeper. So I just – I just hold you and sometimes I sing until you – until you quiet down.”

“You’ve never mentioned them,” he says slowly, and he’s looking at her like he can’t understand why.

“I didn’t think I should. I thought maybe you’d be embarrassed, or – or would tell me to stop. But you’ve seemed so much more rested,” she brushes under his eyes with her fingertips. His dark circles have come back recently, but they’re still not as bad as when she first met him at Haven. “I just want to help you, mon cœur.”

“My heart?” he raises an eyebrow and she feels herself flush.

“It’s – I didn’t realize you could understand me if I spoke French too,” she explains softly.

“French?” he reaches up and brushes her hair behind her ear, a puzzled frown on his face.

“Oh – it’s another one of the languages I know - knew, back home. My mother was French, actually, I – I grew up learning it as well as English.”

“You called me something else when I woke up, I think it was – 'treasure?'”

She giggles, her cheeks heating even more. “That – that was Italian, it’s another language I know.”

“I remember when we first met, you sounded like you tried several different languages to see if I could understand you.”

“I did,” she nods. “I tried French, and then Italian, then Spanish, and you interrupted me when I tried German.”

“You know all of those languages? What’s – what’s yours called? Is that one of them?”

“No, I primarily spoke English.”

“You spoke five languages?” he raises his eyebrows, looking impressed.

“Fluently, yes,” she shrugs slightly. “I was able to speak others, and I – I was working on becoming fluent in a sixth.”

“How many languages were there in your land?”

“A lot,” she answers simply.

“Celia,” he rolls over to face her and takes her hand in his, holding it between them on the pillow. “Where are you from?”

Her heart races as she takes in the curious look in his eyes, the way his golden gaze is moving over her face with tenderness. She wants to tell him, and she begins to think that maybe she should.

What harm could a name do? She doesn’t have to tell him everything, now – she can’t bring herself to. But she can give him a name.

Although it will be better if she gives him a name in exchange for an answer of his own.

“If I tell you,” she says slowly, hesitantly, “will you tell me what’s wrong with you, so that I can help you?”

He frowns and lowers his gaze to where he’s stroking her hand with his thumb, thinking. “I – I don’t want you to think less of me. I – can’t lose you, Celia -”

“What if I told you that won’t happen? Would you believe me?” she squeezes his hand gently and he glances up once more. “After all, I’m worried you’ll do the same, once I tell you where I’m from.”

“No, I won’t -”

“Then we agree? I’ll tell you, and you’ll tell me?”

He considers for another moment, squeezing her hand tightly before he nods.

“I’ll go first,” she smiles, but her heart is still racing. “I’m – well, there’s some explanation needed. I’m from Earth. That’s – that’s the world -”

“It’s called earth? Like – like dirt, like the word for soil and ground?” he chuckles lightly, and she giggles a little herself.

“Yes, it is,” she answers.

“It’s – where is that?”

“From here? I don’t know. It’s a different world, it’s – not a part of Thedas. I don’t know how I left it,” she sighs, and when he stays silent and stares at where he’s holding her hand she decides to continue. “I lived in a lot of different countries when I was younger, but the one I came here from was the U.S. Um, it stood for the United States.”

“States? Like the Free Marches?”

“Erm, possibly,” she nods, deciding not to try to explain the differences now. “The one I was living in, the state I was in was Virginia.”

“Ver-gen-ia?”

“Virginia,” she repeats, smiling. “I lived near the capital city, it’s where I worked.”

“Like Denerim?”

“Yes,” she nods again.

“So you’re – it’s nowhere near Thedas? It’s not…” he trails off, still thinking. “I know you said far away, but – another world? How did you get here?”

“I still don’t know,” she shakes her head, and the memory of her odd dream comes back to her suddenly. But it was just a dream, just her brain processing and remembering. It couldn’t mean anything.

“Do you miss it?” he asks softly, interrupting her thoughts.

“Sometimes,” she confesses. “I had friends there, but – I miss some of the things we had in our world. It was very different from here, and it’s – it’s been a lot to get used to.”

“You’ve handled it admirably, if it really was that different,” he muses.

 

_It’s helped that I found you here, that of all the places I got sent it was Thedas, to be with you._

 

She thinks it, but doesn’t dream of saying it. “I’ve tried. It’s – it’s been a bit of a struggle, but having you,” she smiles and leans forward to press a kiss to his hand. “You were so kind, at first. It helped.”

He smiles, the corner of his mouth tugging up as he looks over her face.

“You promised me an answer too,” she gently reminds him after a moment.

“I – mine is a bit more difficult to explain, since you’re not of this world,” he sighs, the frown returning to his face as he thinks. “I – I was a Templar. How much have you learned about them?”

She considers for a moment, thinking how much is adequate but not too revealing. He took the news of her being from Earth well enough, but she doubts her intensive knowledge of Thedas from a video game will be as easy to explain.

“Um, I – they watch mages, don’t they? They protect from dangerous magic?” she finally says, trying to make her frown believable.

“Yes,” he nods. “They have abilities that allow them to do so. And those abilities are – enhanced. With a substance called lyrium.”

“Lyrium?” she prompts him softly.

“It’s – it’s what gives mages their magic, and it’s,” he trails off, like he’s trying to think how to describe it all.

She decides to help him, and makes a soft, “oh,” until he looks at her. “I think I saw – Josephine had me transcribe a message to the dwarves, to our lyrium supplier. I remember now, they've been providing a supply for our Templars. You take it, don’t you?”

“Well, Templars take it, yes,” he nods. “But – I no longer do.”

Her heart races a little faster, realizing how important it is that he’s telling her, that he’s actually confiding in her. “Is that – is that dangerous?”

“It can be, yes,” he admits quietly. “It’s addictive, it was – it was my chain, my leash, held by the Chantry. And I – I refused to be a part of that any longer. I quit taking lyrium, when I joined the Inquisition.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Almost a year ago.”

She squeezes his hand, trying to reassure him. “And that – is that why you feel ill? It was like – like a drug? Are you going through withdrawals?”

He looks up, his face almost eager when he hears the tone of her voice, the understanding of his situation evident in her words. “I am. Most days I manage, but others – others are worse. Today – yesterday, was worse.”

“What can I do to help?”

His fingers tighten, squeezing her almost painfully as he leans forward and rests his forehead against their clasped hands. “Celia, you don’t have to help me, it’s my burden -”

“Cullen, mon cœur, please,” she scoots closer to him and presses her lips to his forehead. “Let me help you. I want to do what I can. I – if this was a drug, if you don’t want to take it anymore, I support you. We’re together, aren’t we?”

He raises his gaze, their faces so close their breath is mingling against their lips. “Y-yes, we are.”

“This is what together means,” she tells him. “You’ve helped me so much, when I was alone and terrified in a world I couldn’t comprehend. Let me help you, now. Please, mi alma, let me.”

“My soul,” he repeats, understanding the endearment. “Beloved, I – I don’t know what I did -”

She silences him with a kiss, tenderly trying to reassure him, gently attempting to make certain he knows she isn’t going anywhere. It takes him a moment, but he responds eagerly, twisting his mouth against hers as he wraps her in his arms. He rolls them over so that he’s lying on top of her, and he uses his knees to spread her legs so he can take his place between them.

“Cullen,” she sighs, grasping his shoulders and nibbling his bottom lip. “Take me. It’s been days, I – I miss you, I want you.”

She knows he’s still trying to wait until the witherstalk arrives, but she feels less patient. They’ve both given in a few times already, and of all the times they could, she feels like right now is worth the risk. She needs to feel him, she wants him to know she’s still his.

He didn’t flinch when she explained she was from another world, and she can tell from the way that he’s kissing her that he’s desperate as well. Her assurances to be there for him seem to have had a profound effect on him, and his hands are gripping her tightly as his tongue moves eagerly against hers.

She can feel him hard against her thighs and reaches down to touch him, and he breaks their kiss and groans when she takes him in her hand.

“Beloved -”

“I’m yours,” she whispers. “Mon cœur, mi alma. Please.”

He twists his mouth against hers again, one hand reaching down to one of her thighs to pull it wider. She grasps his hips and moans softly against his kiss, and when he slides into her she lets out a muffled cry.

Every movement of him within her sends pleasure coursing through her veins, from her very core to her limbs until she’s trembling. He thrusts slowly, still suffocating her with his kiss, one hand grasping her thigh and his other holding her head steady to his passion. Everything slips away, the apprehension from the dream that woke her, the fear of how he would react to her confession, the concern that he wouldn’t trust her with his burden.

But now he’s moving within her, and he slides his mouth to her ear and whispers words of passion and tenderness, punctuated with murmurs of “mine” in time with his thrusts.

When she comes undone his rhythm stutters and he bites her shoulder, letting out a deep groan as he jerks his hips, going deep into her. He collapses on her fully, going limp together and clinging to one another as they try to catch their breath and steady themselves.

“Celia -”

“I – it’s all right,” she presses a kiss to his neck.

He keeps his head buried beside hers on the pillow, seeming to be struggling with something, still holding himself on top of her and inside her. “I didn’t mean to, I just -”

“It’s okay,” she assures him again, giving his neck another kiss. “I – I meant all of it. I’m yours, mon cœur. No matter what.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cecilia loves languages and would definitely not settle for just calling someone "babe" all the time.


	27. Resolute

_My heart, my soul_.

The whole time he’s been poring over the reports on his desk and writing out requisitions, he’s been hearing her soft voice say the words over and over in his head.

 _My heart, my soul_.

And she’s from another world, a world named after soil and dirt, a world with so many languages that she speaks five fluently and still had more to learn. A world with so many words and phrases he still doesn’t understand.

But he understands these, plain as day.

 _My heart, my soul_.

He had told her, he had confessed about his withdrawal, and she hadn’t batted an eye at it. Instead, she had reassured him, she had offered help and comfort. She had whispered things to him he had never thought anyone would say to him, ever. That he had never thought anyone could feel about him, not after everything he had done, or who he had been.

_My heart._

_My soul_.

Like he’s a part of her being, like he’s a part of her. Like she values him more than anything.

How had it happened that after so little time together he already feels like he could trust her more than anyone? He still hasn’t told Mia about his withdrawal, about what had happened, about where he is or what he is doing. He hasn’t fully confessed it to the Inquisitor, and he probably needs to know about it more than anyone.

Yet he had whispered it to her in the dark and afterwards she had called him such sweet words he had felt like his soul itself was healing as he moved within her.

He tries not to think about what he had done, about the mistake he made. They had been so wrapped up in one another, soft words of love being spoken, emotions tangled up in their lovemaking, and he hadn’t been able to think straight. Something about her made him forget his reservations, his hardships, his pain, until all he could think about was her.

And desires and a future he had never allowed himself to think about before.

He had never taken a vow of chastity, but when he had joined the Order he had realized that the chances of him marrying and having a family of his own were essentially non-existent.

But now…

He shakes his head, trying to banish the thought that keeps creeping into his mind, the image he has of her belly rounding out, of her holding a babe in her arms.

Of her smiling at him as their hands are bound by a revered mother…

He clears his throat and realizes it’s just his hope that perhaps he could mean as much to her as she already means to him, even with all of his flaws.

He still wonders if he’ll be able to confess them all to her someday.

He isn’t sure what to think when he realizes that he wants to. He rubs his temples and tries to push the thoughts aside, refocusing himself on the reports in front of him.

He has a job to do, and he can’t be thinking about something that is unlikely to happen. He can only imagine that if he tells her everything, she’ll walk away. Lyrium withdrawal was one thing, but Kinloch? Kirkwall?

How patient can she really be with him, all things considered?

“Commander?”

He looks up, not realizing the door has opened.

“Yes, Rylen, I apologize -”

“Nothing to apologize for, Ser,” his second walks into the room, looking around for a moment. “I had a report to deliver, but I – I also saw…”

When he doesn’t continue Cullen holds his hand out and raises an eyebrow. “Speak plainly, please.”

“Well, Commander, I just – did you know that Hawke is here?” Rylen says tentatively as he hands over the reports.

“Ha-Hawke is here?” Cullen asks, frowning sharply and staring at the man before him. “At Skyhold? What is Hawke doing at – are you certain?”

“Yes, Ser. He was speaking with Varric and the Inquisitor on the battlements.”

“I – thank you for telling me,” Cullen shakes his head and stares down at the reports Rylen had just handed him.

“Of course,” Rylen gives a small bow. “I – I hope Cassan – I mean, Seeker Pentaghast isn’t, um – upset by Hawke’s presence.”

Cullen chuckles. “I think the odds of her reacting calmly are quite low, don’t you?”

“Oh I don’t know, Commander. She’s a very reasonable woman,” Rylen muses, and then flushes uncharacteristically.

Maker, Celia was right. His second is pining after the Seeker. He watches as the Knight-Captain clears his throat and looks around the office before he hastily nods and asks if there’s anything else he can do for Cullen.

“No, Rylen, thank you,” he dismisses him and tries not to chuckle as he watches the man quickly leave.

He wonders if Cassandra knows, or can tell.

He tries to focus on the new reports, tries to prepare for the war council. But his mind wanders to Hawke, and Kirkwall, and he wonders what will happen if Hawke meets Celia and mentions anything from their time in Kirkwall.

Time passes too quickly and he sighs as he gathers his things for the war council. He feels like he needs to steady himself for seeing Cassandra if she attends, in case she saw Hawke. But he thinks about seeing Celia, and he grins as he leaves his office and heads to the war room.

 

 

 

“I need to go to Crestwood,” Bron folds his arms and gestures at the map. “I need to find the Grey Warden, and find out what’s happened to the Wardens, whether or not it’s related to Corypheus.”

“But we need to reach the Empress, we need to find a way into the Winter Palace to save her,” Josephine protests. “If Empress Celene falls, all of Orlais will fall -”

“The Champion believes he may have a lead on the Wardens -” Bron sighs and rubs his head.

“It’s just a hunch, you don’t know for certain -” Josephine tries again.

“I need to do this,” Bron insists. “We don’t even have a way into the Winter Palace, yet.”

“No, but – Cecilia, may I have the message from Gaspard?” Josephine turns, her hand outstretched.

Celia shuffles a few pieces of parchment and then quickly hands over the correct one. She catches Cullen’s eye and smiles slightly before she straightens the pile of notes she carries in her arms once more.

“We’re close, Inquisitor,” Josephine tells him, passing the message to Bron. “I am not certain there is time for a journey to Crestwood -”

“He says the date of the ball hasn’t been set, but shouldn’t be for more than a month. That should be plenty of time,” Bron shakes his head as he reads through the letter. “I’ll head to Crestwood and in the meantime you can plan our next move in Orlais.”

“I – Commander, what do you think?” Josephine turns to look at Cullen, and he rests his hands on his sword as he looks over the map and mulls over the options.

“I think the lead in Crestwood should be pursued,” he finally declares, nodding at Bron as he says it. “I believe there is time while you work your usual, ah, _magic_ in Orlais.”

Josephine sighs but nods. “Leliana?”

“From what I’ve heard from my scouts, following up on any lead on the Wardens is a good idea,” the spymaster chimes in. “So far, it seems as if they have disappeared without a trace. I must admit, I am – more than a little worried.”

Cullen frowns and opens and closes his mouth once, then twice, before he decides not to ask. He doesn’t want to bring up _her_. He doesn’t want to think about it. Instead he looks across at Celia and sees her making notes before she raises her gaze to the Inquisitor.

“I’m – pardon my interruption, but did the Champion tell you who his contact in the Wardens was?” she asks, frowning slightly, her quill poised.

“The Warden Alistair,” Bron replies eagerly, clasping his hands behind his back as he faces her. “He fought beside the Hero of Ferelden in the Fifth Blight, perhaps you know -”

“I – um, I’ve heard a little – from talking to people,” Celia gives a half-smile and buries herself in taking notes. If Cullen isn’t wrong, she’s frowning sharply as she writes, her nose inches from where she’s scribbling. She’s taken to carrying a finished board of wood similar to Josephine’s, seeing as she takes just as many notes as the Ambassador. Her expression leaves him curious, and he wonders if maybe she wants to hear more about the story.

If he can manage, maybe he’ll tell her later.

That is, if he can bring himself to talk about _her_.

He could always skip the part about the Circle. Celia doesn’t know, can’t possibly know what happened there, and the story can be complete without it. That way, he won’t have to divulge the secrets he isn’t sure he wants to share with her.

Or at least, that he doesn’t want to share with her yet.

They conclude their war council, finally all agreeing that the Inquisitor should depart for Crestwood the next day.

“Oh, Commander,” Leliana turns and faces him before she leaves. “There is a merchant here from Orlais, actually a few – but our _herb_ supply is finally back to normal.”

Cullen clears his throat and nods, avoiding her gaze. “Thank you, Leliana. I know it will be a great help to the Inquisition’s forces, I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” she smirks and gives one small glance to where Celia is still standing and taking notes. Without another word the spymaster turns and leaves the room.

“Did she say a merchant?” Celia finally looks up from where she was writing. “I – we still need to sell my ring. I have it with my things, perhaps if you have time?”

“Of course,” he nods and takes a few steps around the table, inching closer to her. “We’ll need to see the merchants anyway, considering -”

“Cecilia, do you have that missive from the Comte de -” Josephine calls from the hallway.

“I’ll be right there, Josephine,” Celia calls. “I’ll – we can go later, to see the merchants? Or maybe tomorrow, I’m not sure how late I’ll be working with Josephine. We’ve had an influx of nobles responding to our invitations to visit Skyhold.”

“Later, yes,” Cullen smiles at her, and even though she looks harried and rushed she returns it, her eyes warm as she stares up at him. Unable to resist, he leans down and presses a tender kiss to her lips, and she bounces on her tiptoes and responds eagerly, flexing her lips against his as if to reassure him with the slight pressure.

“Later, my soul,” she murmurs, and then she hurries off to join Josephine in her office.

It takes Cullen a moment to collect himself, but he clears his throat and picks up his reports from the war table and walks through the keep.

“Ahhhh, Knight-Captain Curly,” a deep voice calls from behind him, and his teeth instantly clench.

“I thought you would have turned tail and fled immediately after speaking with the Inquisitor,” Cullen glances over his shoulder as Hawke falls into step with him.

His beard is longer, his black hair slightly shaggier, and there’s definitely a lurking anger and sadness under the usual humor of his gaze. But he laughs just as he used to and looks around as they cross the bridge to Cullen’s office. “Oh please, Curly, I’m not scared of your ‘Inquisition.’ Besides, I had to see you. I’ve missed you terribly.”

Cullen gives a noncommittal grunt and continues to his office.

“I see you’re doing well for yourself. Look at all of this space to brood in,” Hawke continues as they enter the tower together. “My, my, and you even made certain it was away from everyone else to complete the effect. How wonderful. I’d hate for you to have to socialize with anyone, ever.”

“Is there something you need, Hawke, or are you just enjoying the sound of your own voice?” Cullen grits out.

“I just wanted to catch up, see how you’ve been,” Hawke smirks. “Aren’t we friends?”

“No,” Cullen smiles at him as he says it, taking his seat behind his desk.

“I’m hurt,” Hawke pouts slightly, but the gleam in his eyes is still wicked, mischievous.

“Does that mean you’ll leave?”

“I – well, I -”

The door opens behind them and Celia hurries in, clutching her board to her chest. She takes a moment to stare at Hawke and Cullen, and then gives a nervous smile. “I’m sorry, I – Cullen – Commander, I need one of the reports from the Exalted Plains that you just got, Josephine forgot to have me copy it.”

“Of course, Celia,” he shuffles the parchment and holds it out to her. When she takes it from him she smiles warmly and gives him a small wink before she turns around to leave.

“Hello, and who might you be?” Hawke asks, and she stops in her tracks and stares up at him.

“I’m – I’m Cecilia, I work with the Ambassador,” she answers after a moment. “Are you – do you know Cull – the Commander?”

“Well enough to know you wouldn’t call him Cullen unless there was something here,” Hawke turns a raised eyebrow to Cullen. “You’re all propriety, normally. Shouldn’t it be Commander, or Ser?”

“I – um, I’m sorry, Commander,” she says, turning to look at Cullen. “It was my mistake -”

He frowns, realizing she’s trying to cover as if she thinks he’d be ashamed of the truth or wants to hide it. Something about the other man’s mocking tone goads him, though, and he smiles warmly. “Nothing to apologize for, Celia. Hawke and I are old friends, you don’t need to hide,” he says. “Hawke, this is Celia. Celia this is Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Hello,” she says softly, her voice wavering slightly.

“Pleased to meet you,” Hawke says, and he takes her hand in his and presses a deep kiss to her knuckles. Cullen ignores the twisting of his stomach, knowing the other man is trying to antagonize him on purpose. “Anyone who can make Knight-Captain Sullen smile has to be a gem. Please, tell me – however do you put up with him?”

“Um,” Celia glances at Cullen, frowning. “I’m not certain what you mean, Serah.”

“Oh please, he’s a grouch and you’re a breath of fresh air,” Hawke chuckles. “What’s your secret?”

“I – I think maybe you misunderstand the Commander,” she says quietly.

“What is there to misunderstand? He spends his time caring about his hair too much and brooding over how much freedom mages have,” Hawke turns a challenging smirk to Cullen. “Isn’t that right, Curly?”

“You’re wrong,” Celia tells him, her voice firmer than it was a moment ago.

Hawke turns his gaze to her again, looking surprised as he glances back at Cullen. “I see you’ve found yourself a defender,” he muses. “I wonder, does she know about the Gallows? Or Meredith?”

“Serah, we both have a lot of work to be done if you’re quite finished,” Celia stands straighter, squaring her shoulders as she stares up at Hawke. She’s much shorter than he is, but the way she sets her chin as she glares at him almost makes him take a step back.

“I see,” Hawke says after a moment. He looks at Cullen and shrugs. “Hold on to her, Curly. It’s rare to find someone so devoted, especially to a sinner such as yourself.”

He gives Celia a bow before he excuses himself from the room. Cullen watches as Celia takes a deep breath, and it almost looks to him like she’s steadying herself.

“Is everything all right, beloved?” he asks.

“I didn’t realize the Champion was such an ass,” she murmurs. She glances at him and smirks. “I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t, um, act inappropriately.”

“No, I – I didn’t think -” he hesitates, taking in the sight of her still looking angry over Hawke’s words. “Hawke and I were both in Kirkwall and have an – interesting history. I didn’t think he’d be so blunt or bold, but I – I appreciate your words.”

She stares at him for a moment, chewing her bottom lip as she thinks. After a brief hesitation she hurries across the office and around his desk, slipping into his lap and sliding an arm around his neck. She presses kisses to his face, and then eagerly finds his lips with hers, kissing him deeply.

“I told you, I’m yours,” she whispers when she breaks away from a kiss. She presses another to his lips before she giggles. “And I certainly won’t be scared off by an ass who doesn’t know you like I do. My heart, I -”

But she trails off and avoids his gaze for a moment before she kisses him once more and then hops out of his lap.

“I should get back to Josephine,” she murmurs, and she hurries out of the office.

Again his mind conjures images he’s never pictured before, and finds himself feeling more inclined to tell her everything after seeing her stare down the Champion so resolutely.


	28. Contentment

“Fancy seeing – wait, are you – what are you doing, Earth girl?”

As she turns a hand reaches over her shoulder and snatches the tome she was reading out of her hands. “Dorian – is something the matter?”

“You can read this?” he looks between the book he took from her and her face, looking surprised. “This is – this is ancient runes that not even most scholars can read, but you can?”

“I – yes, I didn’t realize it was -”

“You didn’t even realize it was runes,” Dorian closes the book and shakes his head as he hands it back to her. “Where’s Cole? I’m going to ask him for the same trick he pulled on you. It will make all of my research go much more quickly, and possibly more enjoyably as well.”

She giggles as she opens the book again. “How have you been?”

“Oh I’m fine, what else would you expect from a consummate pariah such as me?” he quips as he takes the seat at the end of the table, facing her and lounging back against the wall to look over the rest of the library. “I’ve missed seeing you in the tavern, have your duties kept you busy? Or has it been that golden lover you seem to have snagged for yourself?”

She giggles and shakes her head. “I’ve been busy, I’m sorry. I hope you don’t think I abandoned you.”

“No, but I did wonder if maybe someone tried to warn you away from befriending the Vint.”

“Even if they had I wouldn’t have listened,” she assures him. “I’m horrible at doing what I’m told.”

“No wonder we get along so well,” he chuckles. “So why are you here in the library so late, reading ancient runes so easily?”

“I’m studying lyrium -”

“Lyrium? You’re not a mage,” he frowns and purses his lips as he considers her. “Fascinated by something you didn’t have in your world, perhaps? Or is there something else?”

“Well, I – you’re a mage, how much do you know about Templars?” she sets the book down and leans forward.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” he shrugs. “We didn’t have them in Tevinter. I know the basics, but otherwise my knowledge is lacking in that regards. Why?”

“So you don’t know about how they take lyrium, or what side effects there are?” she sighs and looks back down at the book, flipping a few pages.

“Not more than anyone else,” he answers. “But why would you be interested in learning about that? Looking to turn Templar? You don’t look like much of a warrior – no offense.”

She laughs, shaking her head and glancing up at him. “God no, I’m definitely not. I just – it’s something I was curious about, I guess, considering how many of them we have around.”

She isn’t certain she should tell anyone. Cullen had been hesitant enough to tell her, and she knows he hasn’t even fully confessed to the Inquisitor yet.

“Hmm, yes I’m sure that’s it,” Dorian says, and she can tell he doesn’t believe her. “Since you’re here researching, I thought I’d tell you – I’ve been looking into your little problem.”

“My problem?” she glances up from the book with a frown.

“Yes, your ‘I’m-stuck-in-another-world-how-did-I-get-here’ problem,” he tells her. “So far, I’ve found little that’s useful, but I’m curious – when did you arrive here?”

“I – I don’t actually know the exact date. I’d have to ask Cullen,” she shrugs. “Why?”

“Was the Breach already present?”

“I – yes, it was.”

“And it was – was it stable yet? It was open?”

“I think it had just opened. Or at least, not long before. I was unconscious I’m not exactly sure. Why?”

“The two are likely related,” Dorian taps his chin thoughtfully as he looks behind her. “I wonder, now that it’s closed…hmm.”

He trails off, staring into space as he ponders. After a moment he seems to shake himself and looks at her with a smile. “I’ll find you a way home yet.”

“I – Dorian, I – I don’t think that’s possible. Plus, I -” she bites her lip and looks down.

“Do you – is it possible you don’t _want_ to go back?” Dorian leans forward, trying to peer into her face. “My, my, little Earth girl – are you in love?”

She feels her cheeks heat and glances up at him as she chews her lip. She wants to deny it, but he’s already chuckling as if her reaction has said it all. “I just – I don’t think it’s possible. I’ve just accepted that I’m here permanently. I think that’s best.”

“He must be quite the lover, if you’re willing to give up a whole world for him,” he muses. “And here I figured him for a pious Chantry type who prayed for forgiveness after every time he took you.”

She tries to keep her face neutral, so that she doesn’t confirm to him that that couldn’t be farther from the truth. If Dorian had heard the things Cullen had said to her while she had him in her mouth, he’d instead start asking if he actually had ever really been a Templar.

“I’m surprised you’d want to get rid of me,” she says instead, trying to redirect the conversation. “I thought we were going to be outsiders together, what will you do if I leave?”

“Well, seeing as you were so kind to me, I thought I would do you a favor and find you a way back,” he smiles, but it’s a little sad. “But if you’d rather stay here and wallow with me, I suppose that’s acceptable.”

She reaches over a hand and squeezes his fingers, smiling at him. “I couldn’t dream of leaving you, Dorian. But I appreciate you thinking about it and trying to help me. Really.”

“I may still look into figuring out how you got here,” he returns the pressure of her fingers as he speaks. “After all, travel between worlds is – well, before I met you I would have said impossible. The magic behind it…”

He trails off, pondering something as he stares at nothing.

“Have you – have you spoken to the Inquisitor at all? Is he warming up to you?” she asks after a moment.

“Well, I suppose I’ll find out,” he muses with a shrug. “We’re leaving for Crestwood in the morning.”

“He’s taking you with him?” she raises her eyebrows, slightly surprised.

“We’re all going with him,” Dorian frowns at her.

“Oh – right, I should have realized,” she shakes her head and fakes a yawn. “I must just be tired.”

 

_Three companions was a game mechanic. Of course he takes them all with him, there are so many things to do. They probably split up, handle tasks simultaneously._

“They’re working you too hard,” Dorian teases.

“I just didn’t realize how late it is,” Cecilia sighs. “I should go, I can always continue this later.” She stands and puts the book back on the shelf before she reaches over to Dorian and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, and – I’ll see you when you get back from Crestwood. I hope it – well, I hope it goes well.”

“Mmm, yes, thank you my dear. I suppose we’ll see,” he smiles at her and watches her go before he pulls a book off the shelf and begins to read it.

Cecilia hurries down the stairs and out the tower door, resisting the urge to glare at Solas as she passes him. She’s so far avoided saying anything to him, uncertain of what she may let slip if they hold a conversation. And so she hurries across the bridge to the office, hoping that Cullen isn’t out looking for her again.

Her concerns are laid to rest when she opens the tower door and sees him hunched over his desk, buried in the reports stacked around him. He doesn’t glance up when she enters, and she closes the door and hurries over to his side. When she’s standing beside him he finally raises his gaze, jumping slightly as if startled.

“Sorry, I – are you all right?” she frowns when she sees the look on his face.

He shakes his head and looks back at his report. “No, nothing new. Just – the same as yesterday.”

“It’s late, why don’t you try to get some sleep? Did you eat?” she reaches over and brushes her fingers through his hair, noticing how he’s worn down the pomade he puts in it every morning by running his hands through it as he works. She smiles to herself and steps closer to him, putting both hands in his hair and raking her nails across his scalp before she begins to massage it.

“Celia – I – oh, Maker, that feels good,” he leans back against her, and she can tell he has his eyes closed.

She leans over his head and presses a kiss to his forehead, breathing deeply to smell the musky, herbal scent that clings to him. They’re silent and content as she continues to massage his head, his hair becoming curlier and messier as she works. He moans softly with contentment and she can tell his shoulders are lowering, no longer as tense.

“Feeling a bit better?” she murmurs, sliding her fingers along his scalp and down his neck, and occasionally up and around to his temples.

“Yes, it’s – beloved, you’re too wonderful,” he breathes. He’s still leaning back against her, and she continues massaging his scalp and mussing his hair until she worries he’s falling asleep. With a sudden jerk he sits up and slowly pulls away. “I’m going to drift off if you continue for much longer.”

She giggles and leans down to kiss his cheek. “Would that be such a horrible thing? It’s late, mon cœur. Let’s go to bed. Your work will still be here in the morning for you.”

“Don’t remind me,” he sighs. But he looks over his desk at the stacks of paper and nods slowly. “You’re right, though. There isn’t any reason to do it tonight.”

She steps back and he stands, shaking his head out slightly as he shuffles a few papers. He looks over his shoulder at her and grins, the scar at the corner of his mouth tugging up and she feels her knees go a little weak. For over two weeks now he’s been all scowls and pain, and seeing his smile again makes her cheeks flush as she bites her lip.

With a small nod of her head she turns to the ladder in the office and leads the way, her mind racing as she ascends to the loft. She moves around it and puts her things away as he follows her up after locking the office doors, and when he reaches the top he begins to remove his armor.

She gets down to her smallclothes and stops beside the wooden dresser along the wall, rummaging in one of the drawers for her belongings, looking for the small amount of lip balm she has left.

 

_Cigarettes – still ten left, haven’t had one in a while. Haven’t needed one._

_Lighter._

_Phone – last I checked, seventy percent._

_Oh, there it is, and –_

She stops and sees her ring too and picks it up, realizing that she needs to sell it now that they have merchants available. Twisting it in her fingers she looks it over, and it’s like she hasn’t seen it in years. She's almost forgotten what it looks like.

For the first time in months, she looks at it and feels no pain or anger.

Arms slip around her waist suddenly and she puts the ring back in the drawer as Cullen pulls her against him.

“Mmm, Maker you’re a lovely sight,” he murmurs in her ear.

She smiles and places her hands on his, noticing the way he’s holding her stomach as he presses kisses to her cheek. He nuzzles her hair aside and slides his mouth along the side of her neck, stopping below her ear and sucking and licking it gently until she moans.

“Cullen -” she sighs, her eyes closed and her head leaning back against his chest.

He slides his hands down her stomach and slips them into her smallclothes, pushing them off of her hips as he nibbles her ear. “Yes, Celia?” he purrs, and he pulls her full against him and she gasps when she feels that he’s naked, hot and hard against her rear.

“I – I want you,” she murmurs.

His chuckle is soft, barely audible, and he uses his feet to kick hers apart, spreading her legs for him. One hand slips between them and he begins to touch her while he leans and places his other on the edge of the dresser to brace himself.

“You do, do you?” he asks, and the tone of his voice is setting her soul on fire, her legs trembling and weakening. He’s still touching her, and he bends her slightly as he presses his chest to her back.

She moans and braces herself on the dresser as well, bending a bit more so that she’s angled for him. “Yes, mi alma, please – please I want you.”

When she calls him _mi alma_ she watches as his knuckles whiten on the edge of the dresser, like he’s gripping it more tightly, and he buries his nose against her neck. He removes his hand from where he’s touching her and she whimpers, but a moment later she feels him pressing against her and gasps, eagerly pushing back with her hips to encourage him.

His hand moves to her hip and he slides into her, burying his face more forcefully against her neck as he groans. She bites her lip and steadies herself against the dresser, her nails scraping along the wood as her fingers dig into it. After a moment he begins thrusting, still holding her hip tightly as he takes up a fast rhythm.

The sound of his thighs slapping into hers excites something primal in her, and soon each slap is accented by a whimpering sob from her. He releases her hip and slides his hand up to her breast, grasping and caressing it as he continues kissing her neck. He’s so intent on all of his attentions she’s fairly certain he’s leaving marks, and she can’t bring herself to care.

In fact, she’s beginning to hope he is.

“Mi alma, mi alma,” she gasps. “I’m close, I’m going to – please, harder, please.”

She keeps whispering it, and he slides his hand up to her neck and holds it, giving himself leverage and keeping her pressed back against him. He answers her soft pleas until she’s crying out desperately, calling his name so loudly she wonders if the soldiers standing guard on the battlements can hear her. She falls apart and feels him slam into her as he groans, and he whispers soft praise to her as he finishes with a few last thrusts, thrusting deep and holding himself there as he kisses her neck.

She finally releases one hand from the dresser and reaches behind her, running her fingers through his hair. “Mon cœur,” she sighs. “That was amazing.”

He chuckles and cups her cheek with his hand, turning her face so that he can kiss her. His kiss is slow, and again she feels wholly possessed by the way he moves his mouth against hers, as if he’s drinking her in.

“Let’s go to bed, beloved,” he murmurs against her lips. “Now that I feel certain that I’ll have sweet dreams of you, I think I’m looking forward to it.”

She giggles and kisses him a few times before she nods. “If not, we can always try again.”

He laughs, and smiles, and her heart soars to hear and see evidence of contentment in him again.

Maybe she is helping.


	29. Pained

_“I’ll leave you alone for a while to consider,” Uldred smirks, turning and walking away._

_But he has to know, he has to know that he’s not alone._

_“Wait – no -” Cullen yells. He glances back, and there she is._

_“Cullen,” she says, her voice sweet._

_Her voice was always so sweet._

_Short, so short he wants to pick her up, he wants to hold and carry her._

_Long blonde hair, falling in waves to her waist. He always thought about what it would be like if it hung like a curtain around his face, if he could run his fingers through it. What it must look like if she was naked, framing her small breasts._

_And her eyes –_

_No, her eyes didn’t look like this. They were ice blue, they were pale and beautiful._

_These are glinting yellow, green in the light._

_They aren’t her eyes._

_“Leave me!” he shouts, throwing himself to his knees and clasping his hands before himself. It’s as if he thinks he can defend himself from her advances if he just averts his gaze and prays. “Maker – Maker -” he continues a prayer, not even aware of what he’s saying, just desperately calling out to the Maker to save him._

_Or to let him die, like all of the others._

_“Oh my love, all you need to do is accept,” she says. “Think of it, think of the life we could have. Don’t you want this? Don’t you want me? I can give you what you’ve always wanted, what you’ve long denied yourself.”_

_“No, no, no!” he shouts, and then tries to continue his prayers._

_He can’t focus._

_She’s right, he wants that._

_He wants her._

_“Take me,” she says, and she begins to remove her clothes._

_He looks. He can’t resist._

_He wants her._

_“Take me, and we can have the life together that you’ve always dreamed,” she says. “All those times you’ve thought of it. Children, with my blue eyes -”_

_But her eyes glint yellow-green again._

_“I can give you all of that and more,” she murmurs as she steps forward, parting her legs suggestively. “Just say yes, Cullen. Say you want me. Let me in.”_

_He falters._

_He pictures it – children, a wife._

_Her, with those pretty ice blue eyes and long blonde hair._

_A life._

_Her eyes glint yellow-green again._

_“NO!”_

“CULLEN!”

His eyes fly open and he realizes he’s lunging out of bed, pulling away from something grasping his arm.

He’s sweaty, and tangled in the sheets as if he’s been thrashing around.

He hops out of the bed and stumbles on the sheets, looking around himself. He feels frantic, wild, he can’t figure out where he is.

The cage, he was in the cage. _She_ was there, he was going to say yes, he wanted to, he couldn’t resist –

“My soul?”

The sweetest voice, sweeter than _hers_ , with the name she calls him that heals his old wounds, that sets his heart to racing.

That makes him picture the future he wants – without guilt. Without fear. As if he could actually have it, like he deserves it, even though he doesn’t.

“Cullen?”

He glances at the bed, where the soft voice is calling from.

Celia.

He’s not in the cage, he’s not being tempted by a demon.

 _She’s_ not here.

Instead, it’s –

“Beloved?” he asks, his voice coming out in a croak as his eyes try to focus on her kneeling on the bed.

“Are you – are you all right?” her voice is trembling, like she’s scared. Like she’s worried for him. Like she’s going to cry over him.

“I – I’m -” but he can’t say he’s all right.

He isn’t. It’s been too long since his nightmare was so vivid, since he saw everything that happened so clearly. Since he felt that desire, that urge to give in.

He can’t explain where it came from, what made the desire, that shameful longing he’d felt then come creeping back into his dreams. It had felt so real, like he had been back there, like he was trapped there again. Like he had never left the cage.

“Cullen?” she whispers again, and again her voice is trembling.

She’s still kneeling on the bed, staring at him but not approaching. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and the meager light coming in through the hole in the roof is illuminating her enough that he can see the look on her face.

She looks terrified, and pained.

He feels ashamed, wondering what he was doing that's making her look at him like that. What she may have witnessed, what he may have said.

He finds himself hoping that he didn’t hurt her, that he didn’t do or reveal something he shouldn’t have.

“Maker – Celia, I – I’m so sorry,” he murmurs finally.

“Don’t apologize,” she says, but she’s still kneeling in the middle of the bed simply staring at him. “What – what can I do? Are you all right?”

He stares at her, trying to comprehend this woman who can see him like this and still offer him help and comfort. Who can still call him _‘my soul’_ as if she actually means it. Her long brown hair is hanging loose and disheveled around her shoulders and breasts, and she’s nervously chewing her bottom lip as she waits for him to speak. She’s poised as if she’s ready to hop up, her fingers twisted in the sheets by her knees, like she’s restraining herself and making herself stay still.

He wonders if she’s scared of him, after what just happened.

It makes him feel even more ashamed than he already does.

“Nothing,” he finally answers. “There’s nothing you can do. I’m – I’m sorry that I woke you. I’ll – I can’t sleep, I’ll go do some work. I’m – I’m sorry, again. I’m so sorry.”

“Cullen -”

“I’m fine Celia -”

“No, Cullen, please -”

“I said I’m fine!” he snaps, swiping with one hand to emphasize his words. “Please, I’m – I’m sorry I woke you up. But I’ll be – you don’t need to do anything. I’m fine.”

He watches as she bites her bottom lip and stares at him, and her eyes glisten through the darkness and he can tell. He shouldn’t have yelled at her.

But he’s ashamed, he never wanted her to see him like this. He’s weak, and detestable, and she’s more than he deserves. He should have realized how foolish it was to think he could be happy and normal, with her.

He looks away from where she looks like she’s going to cry, and burns inside with even more self-loathing. Walking around the loft he quickly picks up his shirt and breeches from where he threw them aside earlier to take her by the dresser, and pulls them on. He’s still avoiding where she’s sitting on the bed, unable to look at her.

If he looks at her, he’ll cave.

He’ll cry.

He’ll tell her everything.

He’ll admit his shame, and right now he doesn’t want to speak with anyone. He doesn’t want to tell her, he doesn’t want her to know.

Because if he tells her she’ll walk away. Although right now, she’ll probably walk away for how he just raised his voice at her.

But he’d rather have her leave for his cruelty than his past.

When he finishes dressing he hesitates for one moment, wanting to say something, wanting to tell her it’s not her fault. But instead he shakes his head and walks to the ladder, turning to descend it.

“Wait, my heart -”

“I have work to do,” he grits out, and he climbs down the ladder without looking up at her.

Once down in his office he lights a few candles and sits down, snatching the nearest reports toward him as he scowls. He’s still shaking slightly, and his insides are twisting. He wants to go up and climb into her arms, he wants to bury his face in her breasts and tell her everything.

He doesn’t deserve her comfort, though, and instead he buries his face in his reports, focusing as much as he can. The dream still feels too real, though. His mind won’t focus, it won’t let him forget the image of _her_ , the demon, the cage, Uldred.

It won’t let him forget the way Celia was pleading with him either.

Some time passes as he tries to distract himself with work, but it becomes harder when he hears the sounds of muffled sobs coming from the loft.

His jaw clenches, his teeth grind, and he presses his forehead against his fist as he reads a report for the fifth time without comprehending it.

But he doesn’t leave the tower. Instead, he makes himself sit there and listen to her cry for so long he loses track of time.

She doesn’t deserve this, but he doesn’t deserve her kind words.

He deserves this punishment, listening to her cry from the way he treated her.

And so he sits and endures it, letting his self-loathing increase with every choked sob he hears from the loft above him.

 

 

 

He doesn’t remember drifting off at the desk, but he jerks awake when he feels something being pulled over his shoulders.

He sits up from where he was hunched over and resting on the desk, and realizes that it’s a blanket.

Celia is pulling a blanket over him.

He turns a bleary gaze to her, frowning and looking over her face. Her eyes are slightly puffy and red, her nose pink at the tip like it was running. She’s pressing her lips together as she wraps the blanket around him, avoiding his gaze.

“Celia -”

“You’re cold, and feverish,” she murmurs, her voice sounding strained. “Drink some water too, please. But here – take this while you work. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“You don’t have to -”

“You’re right, I don’t,” she says softly. “But I do.”

He can tell she’s trying to resist crying again, and shame washes over him once more. “Th-thank you,” he breathes, feeling overwhelmed by the sadness he sees in her eyes.

“You’re welcome, my – my soul,” she whispers. She leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead and then turns and leaves the office.

He stares after her, wondering at the fact that she could still care for him, after everything.

  

* * *

  

Cecilia walks through the courtyard toward the kitchens, trying to ignore the pain tugging at her heart.

She can’t tell him.

She can’t let him know she knows what’s wrong with him. That she knows about Kinloch, or Kirkwall. But she wishes she could, she wishes she could bridge that gap and let him know that she still loves him.

She stops dead in her tracks as she thinks it.

 

_Holy fuck. I actually love him._

 

It’s no longer infatuation with a crush, like meeting her favorite celebrity and having them be interested in her.

He’s sweet to her, and caring. He’s been kind and attentive, and fascinated by her words. He’s a better lover than anyone she’s ever been with, since she was a teenager sneaking away at parties or the backs of cars. He’s protective, and just the right amount of possessive – she never thought she wanted to belong to anyone but _Maker_ did she want to belong to him.

 

_Who the fuck am I? What’s happened to me? Maker? Belonging to someone?_

 

She rubs her temples and looks around, trying to clear her head. She just wants him to feel better, but she can’t force him to talk with her about it. She can’t push him until he’s ready.

And she’s becoming even more unsure about how she’ll ever be able to tell him everything she needs to. The closer they become, the harder it is to picture confessing it all, even though she had thought it would be easier.

 

_He’ll leave me. He’ll hate me. I’ve known about him this whole time, but I still let him become involved with me, without knowing._

 

She stares around the courtyard, feeling her heart breaking again. He’ll leave her, she knows he will.

As she tries to fight the tears, she catches sight of the merchants setting up for the day. The ring is in her pocket, she’s finally decided to sell it.

If she could, she would sell everything from her old life. She’s done with it. She doesn’t want to go back, even though Thedas is terrifying and unknown still. All she wants is to stay, she wants to stay with him.

He’s everything she ever wished for, and she didn’t even realize how perfect things could be with him.

Pulling the ring out of her pocket she stares down at it, still looking at it as if it’s something she hasn’t seen in years, as if she doesn’t recognize it. With one last little frown at it she approaches a merchant, determined to finally be rid of it.

To be rid of him, to be rid of her old life.

She’s weighed down by the size of the purse as she heads back from the kitchen, moving slowly so she doesn’t spill the hot water with herbs that she made for him. She knows that later, if she has time, she’ll speak with Adan about what herbs may help his head. But for the moment she took the cook’s advice and laced some embrium into hot water for him to drink.

When she pushes open the tower door she sees him huddled under the blanket she had put on his shoulders, trying to read over a report.

She wants to kiss him, to make everything better. She wants to hold him and tell him it’s all right, and that she lo –

No, she isn’t ready to tell him that, yet.

She walks forward and places the tray on the desk, and picks up the cup of hot water and herbs to hand to him. “Here, drink this,” she tells him softly. “It should help. And I – I brought your favorite. The cook had that bread you like, baked fresh. I – I made sure I grabbed you a little cheese, too, you need the protei – I mean, you’ll probably like it.”

He looks up at her, and all she sees behind his eyes is pain. He looks embarrassed, or ashamed. It tears through her, but she tries to keep her face neutral as she holds out the cup of herbal water for him. For a moment, she’s concerned he’s going to refuse it, that he’s going to say no and snap at her again. And she knows she’s not in the mood, she knows she’ll fight with him.

Even though all he needs is her love.

Her fiancé had served tours, he’d been deployed.

He’d come back a little broken each time, a little worse for wear than when he had left.

He hadn’t been through anything nearly as rough as Cullen, he hadn’t been tortured, or nearly died.

But she could tell every time he came back that he’d left a little bit of himself there, that he hadn’t come back whole.

The haunted look in Cullen’s eyes is making her remember, making her think of the apprehension she had felt every time _he_ had come home.

Maybe once he’s calm, once he’s through this spell, this attack, maybe she can tell him about it. He understands war, he understands pain. Maybe if she explains that she watched someone go through pain, and the after effects of violence, maybe he will believe her. Maybe he will accept that she can care for him, that she wants to help him.

Maybe he will stop looking at her like he is so ashamed for things that aren’t his fault.


	30. Need and Want

“Oh no -”

“Oh – are you all right?”

Cecilia hops up and sets her own notes down, rushing to where Josephine has spilled the ink and reports onto the floor.

“Maker, I – I’m not usually this clumsy, I just -”

“It’s fine, Josie, don’t worry about it,” Cecilia assures the Ambassador. “Here, let me help you.”

Josephine sighs and pushes back her chair, stooping to pick up the reports as Cecilia picks up the ink bottle.

“I’m just so – so distracted. We have so much going on, so much depending on us,” Josephine sighs. “But I – I shouldn’t be so – oh, Cecilia, I’m so sorry.”

“Please, stop apologizing,” Celia sighs. She’s feeling irritated from how Cullen is still reacting to her attempts to care for him, and the word ‘sorry’ is starting to wear on her. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, I just – I’m worrying about my personal matters, but I need to be focusing on – the Inquisitor will be back from Crestwood soon, and we need to be ready to head to Halamshiral. We have so much to do, but I’m -”

Cecilia slows as she continues to clean up the mess. She knows the personal matters, she knows what’s coming.

The House of Repose.

“Is there anything I can do, Josie?” Celia asks slowly. “After all, I’m your assistant, maybe -”

“No, it’s fine, I need to deal with it alone,” Josephine sighs.

“Well, if that – if that changes, let me know,” Celia tries to give her a reassuring smile.

“Thank you, Celia,” Josephine nods and stands, putting the reports back on her desk. She rubs her forehead and looks around for a moment. “Let’s – maybe a walk would help, right now. We need to speak with some of the merchants about what we need for Halamshiral anyway.”

“Good idea,” Celia smiles and picks up the notes she needs before she follows the Ambassador out of the office.

“We need cloth, we’ve decided on the uniforms' design but not the color,” Josephine begins.

“What about red?” Celia suggests, trying not to smirk.

“That is my first choice as well, and the Commander agrees,” she nods. “But Leliana suggested sticking to black or white.”

“I think red will stand out more, make a bigger impression,” Celia says.

“I agree.”

They make their way down the steps of the keep, and Celia tries to avoid looking in the direction of the tower. It’s been a strained two weeks since his night terror woke him up, and even though she’s been trying to help him he hasn’t improved. He resists even coming to bed now, staying up and focusing on his work instead.

The circles under his eyes are getting darker, and he goes longer between shaving. She tries to gently encourage him to take care of himself, but it’s getting more difficult by the day to help him. Especially since he resists and rebuffs her coaxing at every turn.

“Is something the matter?”

“Hm?”

“You – you sighed, I thought maybe -” Josephine is staring at her, frowning a bit as they walk through the courtyard.

“Oh – I’m sorry, I’m just thinking,” Celia murmurs.

“Are you all right? You’ve seemed distracted lately.”

“I’m fine, but thank you for asking, Josie.”

“Do you – do you miss home? I know Thedas must still seem – quite strange to you,” Josephine suggests.

“I’m – not as homesick as I thought I may be,” Celia answers slowly. “I enjoy it here, actually. I – I can’t really explain it.”

“I think I can,” Josephine smirks and looks past Celia at something else in the courtyard.

Celia looks over her shoulder and sees Cullen speaking with Rylen and Ser Barris. His hands are on the pommel of his sword, and she can tell it means he’s trying to hide the way that they’re shaking. He’s frowning, and she can tell he’s trying to pass a headache off as intently listening to what his second is saying.

She sighs again.

“Has – has everything been – that is to say – Oh, I’m sorry, it’s none of my business,” Josephine mutters.

“He’s – stressed,” Celia tells her. “It’s understandable.”

“Yes, well – at least he has you,” Josephine heaves a sigh.

Celia frowns at the other woman, noticing a wistful look in her eyes. She never thought about how hard Josephine worked when she was playing the game, but now that she’s seeing it in person and helping her so intimately she realizes. Josephine is lonely, and almost singlehandedly holding the Inquisition together.

“What if we do something fun for once?” Celia suggests.

“What? We couldn’t, there’s so much to do -” Josephine protests.

“Oh come on, let’s – walk along the battlements at least, or maybe try to see if Maryden knows any new songs -”

But as she speaks the gates open and several horses ride through into the courtyard.

“ _Oh_!”

Josephine slaps her hand over her mouth as she watches the cart that follows the Inquisitor and his companions in, and Celia follows her lead a moment later.

 

_A dragon’s head._

_That’s a dragon’s head._

 

“Inquisitor!” a deep voice calls out sharply, and Celia looks to the side to see Cullen walking forward swiftly, a scowl on his face. “What – how -”

“Commander!” Bron greets him as he hops off of his horse. He’s smiling widely, and even though he’s moving a little stiffly like he’s been injured he hurries to meet Cullen.

“Is that a -” Cullen begins.

“A dragon’s head?” Bron interrupts eagerly. “Yes, it is, Commander. It was going to attack the village of Crestwood, so we -”

“Risked _your_ life to solve the problem?” Cullen snaps. “You should have waited for reinforcements, you should have waited to -”

“There wasn’t any time, so I made the call, Commander,” Bron frowns. “We were fine, we handled it.”

“If something happens to you, what will happen to the Inquisition?” Cullen demands. “You need to be more careful, you can’t be reckless -”

“Commander, we were fine -”

“You could have died -”

“Cullen?”

He turns to face her, his brows furrowed in a deep scowl. But he stares at her for a moment, taking in the way she’s looking at him with imploring tenderness, and he steps back and takes a deep breath. He looks at the Inquisitor again and nods slowly. “You’re right, I’m sorry. But maybe next time – wait for some soldiers to help.”

“Of course, Commander,” Bron says, but he’s frowning. His eagerness is gone after the scolding, no longer so excited by his accomplishment. It’s like he was hoping to get words of congratulations from the Commander, and when he didn’t he lost his joy over it.

Cullen stands for a moment staring at the ground, then looks up at Celia. “May I have a moment of your time, please?”

She nods, giving him a half smile. He leads the way through the courtyard, up the stairs to the tower office as she follows behind him. He holds open the door for her, and she precedes him into the room, folding her arms before her chest as she watches him.

Circling around to the desk, he paces away from her as if thinking for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. When he looks back up at her he’s scowling again. “Please don’t ever – or rather -” he heaves a sigh and shakes his head, rubbing his forehead with a hand. “I don’t know if I want to say thank you or be angry with you.”

She raises her eyebrows at him. “Angry with me?”

“I shouldn’t have been yelling at him, but Celia, I shouldn’t look like you need to step in and rein me in -”

“Then don’t do things like yell at the Inquisitor for slaying a _dragon_ that was going to attack a village,” she counters heatedly.

“You’re not my – my keeper, you don’t need to correct everything I do -”

“I wasn’t correcting you, I was helping you calm down -”

“I don’t need you to!”

“Maybe you do, since you’re currently yelling at _me!”_

For a moment they glare at each other.

“I don’t need you to try to fix me.”

“I’m not trying to fix you I’m trying to help you,” she implores him. “Cullen, something is obviously wrong, and I want to help -”

“I don’t want you to have to!”

“You need someone to!”

“No, it’s my burden, it’s my -”

“Cullen it doesn’t have to be!” she takes a few steps forward, still staring up at him intently.

“But it is. And I don’t need you to fix me.”

“I don’t think you need to be fixed -”

“Yet you treat me like a – a fragile babe who needs tending, who needs his hand held all the time -”

“No, Cullen, that’s – that’s just love,” she shakes her head. “I’m trying to – I’m trying to be here for you, I’m trying to help you with your burdens. You don’t have to struggle under their weight alone. I wish you’d see that I’m here. I’m still here, mi alma.”

The look in his eyes changes. It’s pain, but it’s something more now too. A confusion, an odd longing almost.

And then she realizes what she said.

He takes several steps forward to close the distance between them and pulls her into his arms, wrapping her tightly in them as he crashes his lips against hers. His kiss is hungry, it’s desperate, and she has to lean against him as her knees weaken. For weeks now they’ve been distant, as he isolated himself and held her at arm’s length. Now his hands are cupping her face, sliding into her hair to hold her to him so he can kiss her, and she can hardly breathe as she responds.

“Celia – Celia,” he murmurs, pulling away from the kiss. “I’m so sorry, beloved. I’ve been – I’ve been so horrible, I -”

“I understand,” she whispers, and she feels tears spring to her eyes. The pain in his eyes is still there, and she realizes he must be hating himself for how he’s been acting. “Mon cœur, mi alma. Please, just – let me help you. Let me be here for you. You’re not alone. I’ll never leave you alone, just please – please -”

“You shouldn’t have to help me like you are,” he says, resting his forehead against hers. “I – I’m not a good man, Celia. I don’t deserve your help, your care.”

“Yes you do,” she stands on tiptoe to press her lips to his. “You are a good man, Cullen. And you’re not alone, not anymore. I’m here, and – I need you, too. Without you I’m alone, too, and I – I’d rather be together. Let me help you.”

He almost groans in response as he tilts her head back and captures her lips with his again, his tongue impatiently parting her lips to seek hers out. They sway slightly and he takes a few steps, guiding her back until her thighs hit his desk and she leans back on it.

His hands tug at her clothes, he pulls her shirt and vest open so that he can slip a hand into them to caress her, and then he steps back suddenly and tugs his gloves off. Grabbing one of her legs he props it against himself and begins to untie her boot before he tugs it off, and repeats with her other. His hands make short work of the laces on her breeches and he slides them off of her before he pushes her shoulders back onto the desk.

“Cullen -”

“I need you, Celia,” he murmurs as he undoes his own breeches and frees himself.

He takes up his hungry kisses once more as he props himself above her with one hand and slides the other between her legs. He’s biting her lips, and he chuckles when she lets out a soft cry in response to his fingers moving inside her. “I’ve missed you,” he breathes against her mouth.

“Oh mi alma I’ve missed you too,” she sighs. She reaches down and takes him in her hand, and he moans and kisses her deeply as she slowly strokes him.

He brushes her hand aside and slides himself into her, and both of them groan at the feeling.

It’s been weeks, it’s been too long, but it’s like all of that time fades away as he begins to move within her. She holds his jaw in her hands, kissing him deeply as he rolls and jerks his hips against hers, and each of his thrusts causes pleasure to emanate throughout her body until she’s shaking.

“Cull-Cullen, yes, I’ve – oh I’ve missed this.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, and he brushes hair off her face and presses kisses to her. “Celia – beloved -”

When she hears the word she loses herself, her mind going blank and her back arching as she sobs. He groans as he finds his own release, going deep and finishing with a few languid thrusts as if he’s trying to prolong it and enjoy the aftershocks.

For several moments they’re still, and then she begins to giggle. “Don’t you have a war council to get to, now that the Inquisitor has returned?”

“Don’t you?”

They dissolve into laughter, and all she can think about is how wonderful it is to hear him laughing, to feel him inside of her once more.


	31. A Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally stopped writing the next chapter mid-sentence, so sorry about the delay in updates! Here have some smut since I can't remember where the original scene was going.
> 
> xx,  
> Lara

He can’t get enough of her.

He brought her up to the loft after their long day, still thinking about earlier – thinking about how he can’t ever resist, can’t ever fight his desire.

But he doesn’t want to stop thinking about her, doesn’t want to think about anyone or anything but her.

“Celia,” he purrs in her ear. “Maker you’re glorious.”

She giggles as he sucks softly on the spot beneath her ear, both of them trying to pull themselves out of their clothes. He hung up his armor as fast as he could, but now he’s impatiently pulling at the laces on his breeches, trying to slide out of his boots. She takes a step back and smiles at him, her full lips tugging up at the corners.

“My darling – hurry up, I want – _ohhh_ , I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” she says, her voice a rushed whisper, a soft moan.

It makes him shiver.

They strip out of their clothes and he backs her to the bed, feeling as if he’s advancing on her like a predator. She smirks up at him, her eyes wide and dark pools of lust as she stares at his approach.

“Celia – sit on the side of the bed,” he directs her, and she bites her bottom lip as she follows his order. Her hands are gripping the mattress by her hips as she stares up at him in eager anticipation. “Part your lips, beloved.”

He watches as her tongue flicks out and wets her lips before she parts them, and he takes his hard length in his hand to direct it to her mouth. She holds his gaze as he slides himself between her parted lips, and he groans as he watches her plump lips close around him.

“ _Mmm_ – beloved, you’re – yes,” his knees weaken a little as he rolls his hips forward slightly. She wraps her fingers around the base of him as she runs her tongue flat along the tip of him and he groans so deeply it makes her moan around him. After a moment she begins to bob her head, taking more of him into her mouth as she twists and runs her hands along the rest of him. “Celia – that’s perfect,” he praises her.

She sucks and moves her lips along him, her honey eyes still glancing up into his as she takes him in and out of her mouth. When she manages to slide him all the way down her throat he almost roars before he purrs, “Ahhh - good girl, good girl – _mmm_ , Celia – you’re so fucking good at this.”

He stares down, still reveling in the sight of her full lips moving along his thick shaft. He’s starting to get close, though, and he gently encourages her to lean back. She pulls away with a wet pop as she removes her mouth, still staring up at him before she smiles. “Yes, my soul?”

The words almost make him lose himself right then and he moans softly. He kneels on the bed and then lays back on the pillows, reaching over and dragging her until she’s straddling him. He feels with a finger to find that she's already slick with excitement, aroused from how she'd had him in her mouth. Gently maneuvering her he thrusts up and slides within her, eliciting a surprised cry from her as she catches her bottom lip between her teeth.

Tightening his grip on her hips, his fingers dig into her flesh until he knows he has to be leaving red marks on her. He begins to guide her, directing her rhythm and pace with his strong hands. She’s moving quickly, rolling her hips as she takes him into her, going as deep as she can while she lets out soft cries.

“ _Maker_ – you look beautiful like that,” he moans, sliding his hands from her waist up to her breasts, grasping and caressing them. She whimpers slightly but doesn’t stop, biting her lower lip as she continues to rock herself on him. “Celia, beloved, I never want to get tired of this sight of you, riding me. Keep going like a good girl, keep -” but he trails off in another moan.

She giggles softly, arching her neck and spilling her long dark hair down her back. “ _Mmm_ , my heart, I’m – oh I think I’m already close, are – are you?”

He grins and wraps an arm around her hip, sitting up and pulling her against him. Giving them both more leverage he thrusts up to meet her, and soon she cries his name, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, his face buried in the crook of her neck as he groans. It courses through him, igniting his veins until he can feel his knees trembling where they’re bent, his mind going blank as he spills his release into her. They both breathe heavily once they still, holding one another close as they try to come down from their shared pleasure.

“Why on Earth were you denying yourself that?” she says, giggling. “My soul, I missed you. I’ve – I don’t like arguing. I wish – in the future, just tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

“I’m sorry, Celia,” he rubs his nose against her collarbone, still holding her close against him. “I – I just -”

“Is there more than just the withdrawal?” she asks softly, and she slides one hand into his hair and lightly rakes her nails against his scalp.

He doesn’t answer, instead he just holds her tightly, pressing soft kisses to her skin.

“Can I tell you something?” she murmurs after a moment of his continued silence.

“You can tell me anything,” he breathes against her neck.

“I told you my fiancé was a soldier,” she begins, her voice hesitant and unsure. “He – he was in a war. He kept getting sent away to fight, for months at a time. And every time he came back, he was a little worse. He withdrew a little more. He seemed a little less – himself.”

He continues stroking her back gently, keeping his lips pressed to the crook of her neck as he listens to her. When he doesn’t reply, she takes a breath and continues.

“He had nightmares, too. He tried to hide it all from me, but I knew. I did what I could for him,” she murmurs. She’s still running her hand through his hair, and it’s soothing, and wonderful. It’s reassuring, considering her words are making his heart race a bit faster. “There’s a term on Earth for it – PTSD. It means post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s – it’s when someone’s been through something horrible, and they keep reliving it, they keep – getting stuck in those moments, those memories. They withdraw and struggle to cope.”

He rubs his lips against her skin, taking in her words. He frowns slightly. “Your betrothed he – he had this? From the war?”

“Yes,” she sighs. “I – I don’t know what you may have gone through Cullen,” she hesitates, almost awkwardly, “but I just want you to know that I – I’m here for you. Your nightmare, your night terror – I can’t tell what it was. But I want to help you through it. If you’ll – if you’ll let me.”

“I -” he wants to thank her, or say anything at all in response. But he’s at a loss for words. He never thought anyone would say those things to him, would ever support him if they knew what problems he may have. Yet even without her knowing, she says that she understands, like she can tell that there’s something in his past. Like she doesn’t care if there is. He still isn't certain if he can tell her, or if knowing will still drive her away. Somehow, for the moment, though, he feels soothed. “Thank you, beloved,” he finally whispers, pressing his lips against her collar bone once more.

“We should go to sleep,” she finally says. “We have so much work to do tomorrow, and after that war council earlier – I’m sure we’re both tired.”

He chuckles. “That and what happened before the war council.”

She giggles and hugs him more tightly. “Yes, my soul. Please – you haven’t really slept in ages. Let me hold you, and let’s go to sleep.”

He squeezes her to him and then rolls so that she’s on her back, settling himself between her legs, with his head on her chest.

There’s no other way he’d rather find his sleep than resting comfortably on her breasts, listening to her heartbeat as she gently strokes his hair.


	32. Faint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an update I've been sitting on for a while! I apologize for the lack of updates but don't worry, this story is continuing.
> 
> xx,  
> Lara

“Get on with it.”

Cecilia claps her hand over her mouth, trying to hide her giggles. One of her favorite lines, and here it was happening in person.

She’s standing to the side, among the other nobles who have already been introduced or the ones who won’t be; the ones who aren’t important enough. Several of them murmur about Cassandra’s introduction, but then their heads all immediately swivel to the next person to be introduced.

Cullen is standing as straight as can be, looking the part of the soldier, the Commander. His jaw is set, his eyes focusing forward on the Empress as he approaches after his introduction.

She remembers, though – she remembers what Cole says about him, about how he’s scared, about how he shouldn’t be here, and she feels her heart race as she watches him walk down the center of the ball room.

He _shouldn’t_ be here.

She feels her jaw clench as he goes through the motions, and her insides twist as she watches him try to focus.

 

_Did you just grab my bottom?_

 

The indignant words from the game echo through her mind, and suddenly she feels clammy, her palms sweating. She feels nauseated, almost, and slightly weak because she hasn’t felt like eating all day. It has to be nerves, because even though she knows what happens here, she still realizes they’re all in danger.

And Cullen - she can only imagine how the fawning nobles will actually make him feel.

Tugging with irritation at the sash across her chest she presses her lips together and looks around. She’s standing beside Varric, and Solas, and Josephine is further down the ballroom, standing near a young woman.

Her sister, of course.

Cecilia should go introduce herself, but honestly she just wants to make her way across the crowded room to stand beside him.

She shouldn’t be obvious though, she shouldn’t let any of the nobles realize they’re together, as much as she wants to. The Game is difficult enough without giving the players more fodder, and so she holds her head high and turns to go greet Josephine’s sister.

If she makes it seem as if she is speaking with all of them, as if she is making her way to Leliana, she can make her way to stand beside Cullen.

“Ah, Cecilia,” Josephine greets her eagerly. “May I present my younger sister, the Lady Montilyet -”

“Yvette,” the younger woman interrupts eagerly, stepping forward with a small curtsy. “I have heard so much about you, my Lady.”

“And I you, Lady Montilyet,” Cecilia greets her, giving a small curtsy as well.

“Oh you are right, Josephine, her accent is strange – but beautiful,” Yvette giggles. “Where are you from, again? I have never heard one like it, but it is so wonderful.”

“I – I am from far away,” Cecilia shrugs. “Farther than I am sure you have heard. Josephine, is there – is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Not at the moment, Cecilia, thank you,” Josephine tells her. The Ambassador is scanning the ballroom, and if Cecilia isn’t mistaken, when her eyes find Bron her cheeks pinken and the corners of her mouth pull up in a small, beautiful smile.

Just as quickly she clears her throat and returns her gaze to her sister, and she begins to fuss over how she is slouching.

With a short giggle Cecilia bows her head and walks away, wandering through the ballroom as if she is merely passing through. But she wants to get to him, she wants to make certain he’s all right.

 

_Get to him before they touch him, before he starts to feel worse._

Their whole journey here he’s been irritated, she knows he’s been dreading this more than anything. He had tried not to let himself sleep at night in the tent, fearful that he would have a nightmare and alert everyone to his troubles. But Cecilia had eased his worries, coaxing him to rest, insisting that he needed it.

Besides, she had been having issues sleeping herself, her stomach twisting and churning and keeping her up, unable to get comfortable. She stifles a yawn as she makes her way past a group of simpering nobles, pressing one hand over her stomach as another wave of nausea hits her.

It’s been a while since her nerves bothered her so much, her anxiety much more manageable than it had been when she first arrived here. Now though, she feels like a disaster, and she has no relief. Her cigarettes are still in the drawer, in their dresser in the loft back at Skyhold.

 _Their_ loft back at Skyhold.

It’s still so odd to think, but when she does she smiles slightly, looking across the ballroom to search him out.

He’s leaning against the wall, just as she expected him to be, and sure enough a crowd of nobles is gathering around him.

 

_No, over my dead body._

 

She quickens her pace, still trying to fight the feeling of her insides twisting. Her hands are sweaty and she rubs them on her pants in an attempt to steady herself. Maybe something to drink, maybe she needs some water, or –

Looking around she finds a table with champagne flutes and hurries over to it, picking one up and sipping eagerly from it.

The bubbles irritate her tongue, and somehow the champagne tastes – sour?

She scrunches her nose and holds the flute up to her nose to sniff. The smell is almost overwhelming to her, and she quickly lowers the flute as she swallows the gag that comes to her throat.

 

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

Cecilia sets the flute down and takes a moment before she continues to hurry along the ballroom. She had thought a drink would help, but it only made her feel worse. Now the room is swimming, her uniform too hot, and she feels dizzy.

And still so nauseated.

Finally getting closer to where Cullen is standing she smiles, but as she meets his gaze she sees him frown, and then suddenly he pushes off the wall and through the crowd of nobles.

The room swims in her vision, and everything goes black.

 

 

“Beloved? Beloved, please -”

The deep voice pulls her out of darkness, and she opens her eyes slowly, trying to figure out where she is. A hand is gently tapping her cheek, trying to rouse her.

Had she been asleep? She doesn’t remember falling asleep, she remembers –

“What happened?” she murmurs, blinking rapidly as she searches out his face.

“You fainted, are you all right?” Cullen asks, and her gaze finally focuses on his face.

His brows are sharply furrowed, and if she’s not mistaken he looks scared and incredibly worried.

“I – I was dizzy, and I feel so sick, I – I think maybe it’s nerves,” she tells him as she tries to sit up.

“Don’t, beloved, please,” he presses his hands on her shoulders to encourage her to lie back, and she glances around finally.

She’s in some sort of sitting room, lying on what almost looks like a fainting couch. The idea brings a burst of giggles to her, and she feels Cullen’s fingers tighten on her shoulders.

“Sorry, I – I feel a bit strange,” she sighs. Her stomach is still twisting, she’s still trying to fight the overwhelming nausea. “I’m so sorry, Cullen, you – you need to be there in the ballroom, I -”

“No, I need to be right here,” he insists. “Let me get you some water, I can – I can fetch Dorian or Vivienne or Solas – someone should look at you -”

“I’m fine, really,” she tries to tell him, reaching up to grab his sleeve as he moves to stand. “Please, I just – maybe I should try eating, I couldn’t earlier -”

But even the thought of food makes her stomach heave and she presses her trembling fingers to her lips, closing her eyes as she waits for it to pass.

“C-Cullen, is there a – a bucket, or a pot -” she asks, her voice strained.

For a moment she worries it will be too late, but he grabs an empty vase from the table beside them and holds it out for her. He rests a hand on her back as she loses what little contents her stomach was holding, directly into what is likely an expensive, elaborate Orlesian antique.

“Maker’s breath, Celia,” he murmurs when she’s through. “Let me get a healer, we should check you for poison -”

The panic in his voice is rising slightly, and she tries to offer him a reassuring smile after she wipes her mouth.

“I’m sure it’s just anxiety, I – I was so nervous, and worried for you, I – I’ll be fine -”

“No, I’m – I am going to get Dorian, someone needs to look at you,” he insists, and he stands and hurries out of the sitting room.

She clenches her eyes shut, still trying to catch her breath, to steady herself. In a way she’s embarrassed, thinking of passing out in the middle of the ballroom.

Her head doesn’t ache like she hit it, and she realizes Cullen must have caught her. He must have carried her out of the ballroom, too. She cringes when she thinks about what a sight that must have been, what the nobles must all be saying.

Fainting in the middle of the Grand Game.

She feels like a fool.

Rubbing her fingers along her forehead she takes deep breaths, letting them out between her full lips and trying to focus on the sound, the sensation.

 

_Breathe in._

 

_Breathe out._

 

_Breathe in._

 

_Breathe out._

Slowly she begins to feel a bit better, her stomach almost calm. Her fingers are still shaking, and she can’t tell if it’s still nerves or from getting sick. Or maybe she’s finally hungry? Her stomach twists uncomfortably and she can’t determine the cause.

The door opens again and hurried footsteps come into the room. “She is over here, please hurry.”

“I am hurrying, if you hadn’t noticed, Commander,” Dorian’s smooth voice snaps, and she smirks a little to hear it.

Both men quickly cross to where she lay, and Dorian kneels beside her instantly and takes her hand in his.

“How are you, my dear?” he asks, a frown coming to his face as he looks her over. “Did the pretentious Orlesian food disagree with you?”

She giggles and squeezes his hand. “No, I haven’t eaten all day, I felt sick to my stomach -”

“You’ve felt this way all day?” he raises an eyebrow as if thinking.

“For a few days, really,” she sighs. “I thought maybe it was traveling, or nerves.”

Dorian purses his lips and thinks it over for a moment, nodding his head absently. Behind him Cullen hovers like a worried mother hen, his dark golden brows furrowed sharply as he watches Dorian work.

“Hmm,” Dorian hums after a moment, and he closes his hand around Cecilia’s wrist, channeling warm, green light into her with his eyes closed.

He’s focused on what he’s doing, and she feels the magic emanating from him as if sunshine is racing through her veins. His brows furrow suddenly and he opens his eyes, looking over Cecilia’s face.

“Commander, if you wouldn’t mind leaving Lady Cecilia with me for a few moments, I can get her sorted out,” he says smoothly, looking over his shoulder at Cullen.

“I – what is the matter with her? I would rather stay -” Cullen protests, glancing between Cecilia and Dorian.

“The Ambassador and Sister Nightingale are sure to want you back in the ballroom,” Dorian points out. “Don’t worry, I promise to have your sweetheart back in top shape and at your side shortly. Now run along.”

Cullen looks ready to protest again, but she can see it; he’s thinking about duty, he’s realizing Dorian is right.

She gives him a reassuring smile. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Dorian will take care of me, mi alma,” she insists. “Please, you can go back to the ballroom, I’ll join you in a few moments.”

He hesitates another moment and then steps forward, bending to press a kiss to her forehead. “If you aren’t, I’ll come find you,” he teases softly, and he gives her a crooked grin before he finally turns and leaves the room.

Dorian removes his hand from her wrist and seems to think for a moment before he meets her gaze. “Well, my dear, nerves you think?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow curiously.

“I – I always have horrible anxiety, I must be feeling nervous with assassins around,” she explains.

Absently nodding his head Dorian looks her over, and he looks like he’s deciding something.

Finally he raises his warm gaze to hers and holds it silently before he smirks.

“It’s not nerves, my dear,” he tells her, and she feels her heart begin to race.


	33. Boop

He should have stayed with her.

Standing in the ball room once more, surrounded by simpering nobles; this isn’t where he should be.

He feels useless, thinking of her sick in that room with Dorian, but without _him_. Scanning over the crowd of masked Orlesians he tries to see if he can maybe slip away or if there’s any reason for him to stay.

Josephine had been worried, had asked him if Celia was all right after he had caught her and carried her out of the ballroom. The Ambassador had frowned sharply when he told her he didn’t know what was wrong, but they hadn’t been able to discuss it further.

Dorian had acted like it wasn’t poison, but he’s still worried that maybe something is wrong, that something could happen to her. Dorian’s insistence that he leave the room worried him, like he was trying to keep him from finding out bad news.

He should go find her, he should go back to that room instead of standing here being fawned over by sodding nobles.

Just as he pushes away from the wall, scowling and determined to make his way back to that small sitting room, the doors to the ballroom open and he looks up over the cluster of people surrounding him.

Celia slips into the room and looks around, a curious expression on her face. She chews her bottom lip between her teeth as she hurries through the crowd, along the side of the ballroom that he’s on.

When she gets closer she locks eyes with him and gives him a small quirk of a smile, then takes in the sight of the crowd of nobles around him. Something changes in her expression, going from an almost bemused frown to a dangerous glare.

With smiles and small, polite nods of her head she pushes through the crowd to stand beside him.

“Commander,” Celia greets him with a sweet smile. “Have you tried the hors d’oeuvres? There was a small cheese pie I think you would appreciate, if you would care to walk with me.”

He smirks, despite how he should try to remain expressionless at the moment. But the softness in her voice, the twinkling in her honey gold eyes makes him feel slightly relieved. If she can look at him like that, with that intense tenderness in her gaze, then she must be feeling better.

They walk side by side, resisting touching, even though all he wants to do is hold her, to assure himself that she’s feeling well and that she's safe once more.

“Are you all right?” Cullen asks quietly, frowning down at her as he tries to read the expression on her face.

“Hm?” she glances up at him, looking like he pulled her out of deep thought. “Oh yes, I was just – I hadn’t really eaten, and I got nervous. I’ll be fine.”

He scowls at her words, wishing he could do more to soothe or help her. There aren’t any words he can think of, and he doesn’t want to sound like he’s scolding her with the ones that come to mind.

But Maker’s breath, why hadn’t she tried to eat something sooner?

“Dorian was certain, it’s not – it’s not anything dangerous?” he asks, and he fidgets with the sash across his chest. He feels stifled, and his irritation and concern for her isn’t helping.

He wants out of this damned uniform.

“D-dangerous?” she repeats and for a moment she simply stares up at him, her eyes wide. “No, no, I’m – I’ll be fine, Cullen.”

He can’t interpret the look on her face, but he doesn’t know how to press the matter. Why does she seem so lost in thought, so distant? And yet when he catches her glancing at him the look in her eye is tender and almost reverent.

They stop beside a table and he fetches them both small plates, and Celia makes her way along the display of food. He’s almost surprised when he sees her taking a bit of everything, filling the plate and balancing it as she leads the way to one of the small balconies.

“I – I should stay in the ballroom,” he begins to protest, but she looks up and bats her eyelashes a few times.

“Please, my soul, just for a few moments?” she requests, taking a seat on a stone bench.

He sighs and acquiesces, taking a seat beside her. “Are you certain you’re all right, beloved?”

“I – I am,” she tells him, her voice soft. “I just got too nervous, so much going on and relying on us. I’m still adjusting to – to all of that responsibility, everything going on.”

“Understandable,” he nods and shifts on the bench. It’s hard and cold, but he’s still feeling so hot and stifled by his coat it’s almost a relief.

“You should have had them let that jacket out a little,” she quips, and she reaches over to run her delicate fingers over his chest. “Formal didn’t have to mean uncomfortable.”

He heaves a deep sigh and shoves a small meringue in his mouth, chewing it as he scowls. “Is it that obvious that I’m uncomfortable?”

“It is at least to me,” she giggles.

For a few moments they sit in silence, both eating the food that they got. Cullen glances sideways at her to see her trying to nibble carefully at some of the morsels, like she’s trying to eat but also doesn’t want to get sick again.

“Did Dorian give you something for your stomach?” he asks after a few moments.

“N – y – yes, he did. Really, my soul, I’m fine,” she smiles sweetly once more and then tries to take another small bite.

Again he wants to ask, seeing that curious gleam in her eye when she looks at him.

Perhaps she’s still just nervous. After all, she’s been to the war councils.

“My apologies, beloved, I just – I was worried for you,” he tugs at the collar of his coat. “Maker’s breath, this is – this evening could not pass quickly enough, in my opinon.”

She giggles beside him but says nothing. More time passes in silence, and he muses over how comfortable he feels suddenly, sitting silently beside her. All evening he’s been on edge, every little thing ready to set him off.

But now, her presence beside him is soothing, calming. He doesn’t feel so much like he’s shaking, or like he’s suffocating.

Instead a small smile comes to his face and he glances sidelong at her.

She’s watching him, and when he looks her way she smiles sweetly, and then reaches out with a finger and pokes him on the tip of his nose.

“Boop,” she says softly as she does so.

He furrows his brows as he stares at her, feeling confused. “B-boop?” he repeats.

“Yes,” she murmurs, and then she bursts into laughter. “Oh your face, it’s so cute when you’re annoyed. Your nose scrunches up, I just – I want to boop it again.”

And sure enough once she says it, she reaches over and taps the tip of his nose again with a slender finger.

“Did what Dorian gave you make you silly?” he asks, trying to fight the irritation in his voice.

He’s the Commander of the Inquisition forces, he shouldn’t be sitting out here on a bench having his nose poked where anyone could see them. Not in the middle of the Winter Palace and the Game, with assassins hiding in the shadows.

“No, I just – you’re so handsome, and you’re stressed, I thought I’d try to help,” she sighs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

He almost feels a little guilty, and he clears his throat and looks away from her.

“Does that nose run in your family? Does anyone else have that same adorable nose that you do?” she asks suddenly, and he turns his head quickly to look at her.

“I – I haven’t seen my siblings in years, but,” he trails off, shame washing over him when he thinks about Mia’s unanswered letters. “They – we were told we all looked similar, when we were younger.”

“Do they all have blond curls and brown eyes too? Did your parents?”

He frowns when he notes the eager tone of her voice, but he can’t determine the cause. “I – yes, we do. Or at least, my mother had golden hair and green eyes, but my father had brown, like mine.”

“Your eyes are very beautiful, my heart,” she sighs, almost wistfully.

Again he simply stares for a moment, watching as her eyes roam over his face like she’s drinking in his features. She’s focusing on certain features, her eyes lingering on his eyes, his brows, his nose.

“Are you -” but he cuts himself off, not wanting to badger her about whether or not she’s all right.

“Boop,” she giggles, pressing her fingertip to his nose again.

“Maker’s breath, remind me to speak with Dorian -”

“No, I’m sorry,” she bites her lip and tries to stifle her laughter. “I’m just – admiring. And trying to make you laugh.”

“You can admire me later at your leisure, when we're alone together,” he purrs, leaning closer to her ear suddenly. “I was worried about you earlier, I’ll want to reassure myself that you’re all right. That is, if you are – are up to it.”

Her cheeks flush and she opens her mouth as if she wants to say something, but instead she presses her full lips together and nods. “I’d – I’d like that. Although – will you dance with me, later?”

“Oh, I – I do not – dance,” he stutters out, looking away from the disappointed look that comes across her face. “I apologize, I -”

“It’s fine, my soul,” she assures him. “You should get back in there, we still have – we still have to protect the Empress.”

He exhales deeply and tugs once more at his sash, at the collar that’s pressing against his neck. The very thought of going back in to make conversation and observe simpering masked nobles makes his palms sweat and his heart race. But he steadies himself and glances back at her.

“I will see you later. Please be careful, beloved.” He holds her gaze, wishing he could kiss her or touch her in any way for comfort. Instead he nods after a moment and stands to return to the ballroom.

When he resumes his place along the wall to watch the crowds in the room, he finds himself distracted by a tender gleam in honey gold eyes and musings over why she wanted to know what his family looks like.


	34. Three Words

“We’re staying here for the night?”

“Yes, Empress Celene is incredibly grateful for the Inquisition’s help foiling the plot against her,” Josephine tells her. “Leliana and I have arranged everything, including,” she lowers her voice and looks around the deserted hall, “your room with the Commander.”

Cecilia smiles and nods, trying to stifle a giggle. “Thank you, Josie, I appreciate that. He seems stressed, I’m sure he’ll want to retire soon. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, everything else should be arranged,” Josephine sighs, straining to look around the corner at where members of the Inquisition are speaking in a huddle. “Have you seen Br – the Inquisitor? I was hoping to speak with him…”

Cecilia smirks and looks around as well. “You may want to check the balcony over there, I believe I saw him sneak out for some fresh air.”

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t want to disturb him, but I do want to – yes, maybe I will,” and with that Josephine hurries off to the balcony to find Bron.

Shaking her head, Cecilia looks around the deserted hall, taking a moment to herself before she goes to find Cullen and their room.

 

_It’s not nerves, my dear._

_What do you mean? Was I poisoned?_

_Not unless that poison added a second heartbeat, darling Earth girl. Seems our golden Commander is quite a virile man._

The conversation has been playing through her mind for hours, even in the middle of the Game and Halamshiral. She hadn't really been able to even enjoy the speech the Inquisitor gave when he revealed Florianne as the person behind the plot. Her nerves and fears about the nobles, assassins, and worrying over Cullen have been replaced with a jumble of emotions as she tries to make sense of things.

She should have realized, she should have paid more attention to her – what did Dorian call it? Her moon cycle?

But she was so stressed at finding herself in Thedas, and she had been injured, and the first few months when she had had her period here it had been beyond mortifying, trying to figure out how to handle it. She hadn’t been able to explain in Common, and once she’d mimed and gotten Cullen to understand, she had simply wanted the ground to swallow her up in her embarrassment.

She hadn’t even noticed that she’d missed her period, too caught up in _him_ , in the fact that she’s been spending her nights wrapped up his arms.

Now, based on the timeline, she can’t quite figure out which time or how it had happened. She knows they’ve been less than careful, but once the merchants arrived at Skyhold she had gotten back on the witherstalk after every time. Perhaps it was before then, before the merchants came. 

 

_There was that one night..._

_At least Dorian said if I was already pregnant that taking witherstalk wouldn’t hurt it._

_Holy shit – I’m pregnant._

 

No matter how many times she thinks the word, and tries to fully grasp the situation, it’s still odd to her. Even though so much is starting to make sense. So many symptoms she was suffering that she attributed to her anxiety, but instead –

 

_I’m going to have a tiny Cullen Rutherford._

 

A giggle escapes her throat unbidden, and she presses her fingers to her lips to stifle the sound. She’s torn between absolute excitement and sheer terror.

 

_Oh god – how is he even going to respond?_

_How long have we even known one another?_

_And how is it I can feel this excited over something so unexpected and daunting?_

 

But she is. The excitement is almost overwhelming, and she’s shocked by that feeling. In truth, she barely knows him. Real, actual him, not the him from a video game. And yet she’s never felt so connected to someone before.

The idea that his child is growing within her makes her heart race and she has to fight a smile.

 

_Why do I want this so much?_

 

Anxiety and pure joy are grappling for her attention, alternating between her fears for what could happen and her happiness that this has happened.

 

_What if this is still just a dream, or I’m in a coma? Having this feeling taken from me…_

_Although worse, what if he finds out I knew about him, that I know about Thedas, and that I kept that from him? Will he leave me?_

_Will I suddenly be a single mother in Thedas of all places?_

_Will the Inquisition kick me out?_

 

Her palms begin to sweat and her stomach churns, and she wonders if this time it is just anxiety or not. So far she’s been able to hold down the food she forced herself to eat earlier after convincing herself she was eating for two now.

 

_I’m eating for two._

 

Despite herself, she smiles at the thought. It helps a little to try to think like that instead of focusing on everything else. Her nerves leave her when she pictures his nose, when she thinks about golden curls and warm, amber eyes.

 

_A little him, a boy with a nose that scrunches that way, a set of golden curls that bounce when he runs and plays –_

“Celia,” a deep voice greets her and she jumps slightly.

Turning she sees Cullen standing near her, and he’s scowling as he glances up and down the hallway.

“Are you all right, mon cœur?” she asks, stepping closer to him. Her heart hammers in her rib cage, and she gulps as she tries to steady herself.

It’s clear he’s stressed, his brows furrowed sharply and his adorable nose scrunched up a bit. Immediately she pictures a small babe fussing, their nose scrunching up the same way his does as their face turns pink. And then she sees him leaning over the babe, buzzing his lips as if blowing a raspberry to soothe and distract them, and something inside of her melts.

 

_Oh god, if I wasn’t already pregnant I’d think my ovaries were exploding._

 

“I will be better once we are out of Orlais,” he grumbles, looking up and down the hall, still frowning. “This is unbearable. Staying the night here – we would be better on the road, in a camp. Bandits are infinitely preferable.”

“But we’ll have a bed, and a bath. Please, mi alma – can we retire? We’ve both had a long evening,” she implores him, and she reaches over and squeezes his hand.

He looks sideways at her as if contemplating, and then looks back down the hall. “I was hoping to speak with the Inquisitor, but I haven’t seen him.”

 

_Check the balcony, he’ll be with Josephine, I think._

She doesn’t say anything though, instead she simply shrugs. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

For a moment he seems to consider and then nods his head. “All right, beloved. Let’s get to our room,” he glances down at her and smiles.

There’s a curious gleam in his eye though. It’s clear he’s still stressed, frustrated beyond belief from their surroundings and how the evening went, even though everything was successful.

She can tell he’s out of his element, and she finds herself wishing there was something she could do to comfort him.

 

_One thing I can do is not tell him, yet._

_He’s too stressed – as much as I want to, I can’t tell him now._

_Now’s not that moment._

 

She convinces herself it’s because of his stress level and not because she’s terrified of how he’ll respond. She hadn’t realized how much she’d thought about it, the silly daydream she had begun to have of babies with blond curls and big brown eyes.

There have been times she’s wondered if he’s thought about it, if he’s pictured it. He seems to take a particular pride in finishing within her, often running his hand over her belly with a curious gleam in his eyes.

But also, it’s all so sudden, and he’s still trying to come off of lyrium and lead the Inquisition’s forces.

Cecilia isn’t positive that he’s going to be thrilled, though, as much as she’d like for him to be, but it’s happening whether or not he’s happy about it.

They finally reach the end of the hall and a tall, intricately carved wooden door. Cullen pushes the door open, standing aside to let her pass as he looks up and down the halls to see if there’s anyone else around.

The chamber is extravagant, ostentatious, but she hardly gets a chance to see it and then he shuts the door behind them and locks it. She begins to turn, opening her mouth to speak with him, but before she can actually say anything he grabs her and directs her back to the wall beside the door.

He almost looks pained, frustrated, and he pins her to the wall and crashes his mouth to hers without preamble.

His kiss is hungry, and desperate, and his hands move to the buttons and sash of her uniform and begin to yank them to undo them. Panting gasps greet the soft moans she makes as he begins to touch her, but he moves quickly to try to strip her bare, hardly spending any time caressing her in his haste to remove her clothes.

After stripping out of his own just as rapidly, he bends to lift her into his arms once they’re both bare. He holds her thighs around him, twisting his mouth against hers and stealing her breath from her with the desperation of his kiss. One hand slides along a thigh and he begins to rub against her excited pearl, working to coat her with her excitement as he tries to ready her for him.

As soon as he hears her whimpering and gasping his name, he shifts her hips and slides himself until he rests within her, leaving her feeling full and aching for more. She whines his name, tightening her arms around his neck as she clings to him, trying to hold herself steady for him. He begins to move, thrusting up into her and eliciting a cry or a moan from her with each of his movements inside her.

She’s reminded of the first _real_ time, when he convinced her to follow him down to the cellars beneath Skyhold to take her. Vaguely she thinks about how much has changed in this short amount of time, thinking of how they essentially live together, of how she’s carrying his child.

Somehow that excites her further until she’s sobbing with each of his movements within her. He’s relentless, moving hard and fast as if he can’t get enough or is working through the stress of the day, the stress of Orlais and the Game by how he’s using her body with his.

Yet she doesn’t care, instead feeling thoroughly aroused and desired because she’s the solution to his troubles at the moment. He’s rough, demanding, and all she can do is hold onto him as he fucks her into the wall, and he groans every time her cries become louder and more excited.

When she falls apart she cries his name, her thighs tightening around him as she arches off the wall, tears clinging to her eyelashes from the intensity of her orgasm.

He finds his own release not long after, thrusting up into her harder than he was before in his desperation to finish. He moans her name and swears softly as he pushes her into the wall, and she feels him come, the feeling of his hot spend inside her incredibly familiar after their time together.

She tries not to think about what that’s led to.

She can’t tell him yet, and she’s terrified that she may slip and confess.

 

_I’m carrying your child._

_I’m going to be the mother of your children – child._

_Oh god I’m already thinking about another one._

Her mind is fuzzy, distracted and wandering as she continues to try to take in the revelations of the evening. She’s still trying to come down from the pleasure he gave her, and he still has her pressed against the wall, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

“Beloved,” he finally groans. “You’re amazing, every time. I – I’m sorry, I should have asked, I should have made certain -”

“Please, mi alma, that was wonderful,” she sighs, sounding perfectly content. “Although I see the size of that bed and I can’t help but think how comfortable it must be.”

He chuckles and stands away from the wall, still holding her in his arms as he takes long strides across the room to the large bed in the middle. He lays her on her back and they both crawl to the pillows and collapse.

“Thank you, beloved,” he murmurs. “I needed that.”

“I think I did too,” she giggles, taking her place on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Better now,” he tells her, wrapping his arms around her to hold her tightly to him. “I was so worried all night, I wanted to be certain you were all right. I hadn’t realized just how tense I was, though.”

“I could tell,” she says. “Did – did the nobles bother you?”

He sighs and raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Again she finds herself staring at the tip of his nose, the way it turns up, and she bites her bottom lip as she again pictures what their child will look like.

 

_I want it to look just like him._

 

“They were – Maker, I would have rather faced another rift with demons pouring out of it than those nobles,” he grouses, and she giggles. He peeks one eye open and stares down at her. “I am glad you find my stress amusing -”

“Oh it’s not that, just the way you sound when you’re irritated,” she tells him. “It’s cute.”

“I’m…‘cute’ when I’m irritated?” he quirks a golden brow, his nose still scrunched a bit.

Before she can resist she raises a finger and quickly taps the tip of his nose. “Boop.”

“Maker’s breath, not this again,” he sighs and rubs his forehead. “Are you drunk?”

Celia shakes her head emphatically. “No, no, mon cœur, I’m not. I’m sorry, just still – still giddy from how you took me.”

A sly look comes into his eyes and one corner of his mouth tugs up. After a moment’s hesitation he rolls over so that she’s under him, laying between her legs as he props himself above her with his elbows.

“I had to reassure myself you were better,” he murmurs and he leans down to press a deep kiss to her lips. “Are you ready to tell me what was wrong?”

“I -” she falters, warring with herself.

 

_Tell him._

_No – he’s still so stressed._

_Now’s not that moment. There will be time later._

 

“It was just nerves, and that I hadn’t eaten, and dehydration,” she hurries to tell him. “Really, mi alma, I’m fine. I promise. Let’s go to sleep, we both had a long day.”

“You are right, I suppose,” he heaves an overdramatic sigh and then chuckles. “Having you here tonight, with me – it was – a comfort.”

Her heart soars with the words, watching the way his eyes are roaming over her face, the tender way that he’s drinking in the sight of her. “I’m – I’m glad, Cullen. I -”

But she bites her bottom lip, uncertain if she should say the word she wants to. She knows that it’s true, but it feels so soon to say –

“I love you, Celia,” he murmurs, cupping her cheek with one hand and stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. “I know it is – it feels so sudden, I still barely know you, but I -”

“I love you too, Cullen,” she interrupts, her voice wavering as she says it, her heart feeling full to bursting.

He smiles when she says it, and leans down to seal their words with a gentle kiss.


	35. Persevere, My Love

Cassandra wouldn’t listen to him. She had ignored him when he told her how he was feeling, what thoughts were plaguing him, how his nightmares were getting worse since they had been at Halamshiral. Most nights since then he had stayed away from his bed, unwilling to disturb Celia with his distressed sleep.

He’s restless, in pain, and he’s not certain how much more he can endure. And he doesn’t want her seeing him like this, even though she always tries to be so understanding. Lately she’s been distant, and he worries that perhaps she’s finally through helping him, that she’s strained by his burdens, by his gruff demeanor and the way he’s snapping at everyone around him. He thinks guiltily about the few times he’s snapped at her, even though he’s been doing his best to hold his tongue.

He worries that she’ll give up on him, especially if he stays this irritated and easily angered.

He’s trying to convince himself that they’re both busy, that she’s just preoccupied helping Josephine with everything she’s doing, but he isn’t certain.

Why else would she pull away if not because of his withdrawal, his problems?

Since that night at the Winter Palace, they haven’t been intimate, and he feels himself staying away from her because he worries what he’ll ask of her. He used her that night as an outlet, as a way to work through his stress, but he doesn’t want to make it a habit. Searching her out should be about love, not base desire and his pain.

Love. He told her he loved her. He’s said it since then too, unable to resist telling her in tender moments when they’re alone. She’s more precious to him than anyone ever has been, more dear than he ever thought anyone could be.

Doesn’t that mean he should be doing everything he can to be there for her?

 

_I should be taking it._

Cassandra had disagreed. But Cullen could feel it within him, like a painful, needling ache. He could focus, if only he took it.

 

_I should be taking it._

_When I told the Inquisitor, he expressed doubt._

_I need to do what I can, to be the best I can be for the Inquisition._

_Save Thedas so there’s a future, so that she’s safe._

_I should be taking it._

_But I don’t want to._

He snarls, conflicted, angry, just wanting it to be over, just wanting this feeling of indecision and pain to go away. With a growl he grabs the lyrium kit, the one he’s been staring at since he left Cassandra, and he throws it away from him.

“What the -”

His gaze snaps to the door, where the Inquisitor stands, ducking as the splinters of wood and glass shatter on the jamb beside him. When the younger man’s confused grey gaze turns to his, Cullen almost stumbles back.

“Maker’s breath, I – I didn’t hear you enter,” he exclaims, and then he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “F-forgive me.”

Bron takes a few steps into the room, staring critically at Cullen. “I thought you had everything under control,” he says, his tone firm. “What’s going on?”

“It’s fine,” Cullen tries to assure him, but he stumbles slightly when he takes a step. “You – you were right. This was a mistake.”

He hates himself, he hates that he’s failing. He hates that he even thought he should try.

“Does that mean you’ll listen to me now?” Bron asks, walking toward the desk and folding his arms.

Cullen sighs and rubs the back of his neck, turning and walking to the window.

How can he even explain, how can he get the young Templar to understand?

Bron still idealizes the Order, he still thinks they’re in the right, that they’re blameless. Although he has shown doubts before, after all there was that conversation when he asked about his relationship with Celia…

Cullen glances up and hesitates only a moment more. “Did you know Ferelden’s Circle was taken over by abominations?” he asks.

Of course he probably doesn’t know the whole story – how old would he have been? Twelve?

“I was there,” Culen continues. “The Templars – my _friends_ – were slaughtered. I was tortured, they tried – tried to break my mind.”

He tries not to think about the demon, about the offers he was made. The way _she_ had –

Shaking his head as if that will clear his mind, he sighs and looks back out the window. He can see the bridge that leads to Skyhold, and suddenly he remembers the sight of Celia looking at him and smiling as they returned from the Winter Palace.

It was like coming home.

But since then he’s just been plagued with nightmares, and both of them have been pulling away from one another.

 

_I should be taking it – even if I lose my mind._

_She would be safe, I could focus._

 

“How can you be the same person after that?” he continues, and glances up at Bron imploringly. “Still, I – I wanted to serve. They sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my Knight-Commander – and for what? Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall’s Circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets.”

He turns his gaze to the Inquisitor once more, noticing the frown, the sudden doubt showing on the young man’s features.

“Can’t you see why I want nothing to do with that life?” he implores, but Bron frowns more sharply.

After a moment’s hesitation, Bron shakes his head and looks around the office, sighing before he speaks. “Be that as it may,” he says, “you put your health and your service to the Inquisition at risk.”

“I – I know,” Cullen answers as he begins pacing. “I thought this would be better, that I would regain some control over my life. But these thoughts won’t leave me -”

He closes his eyes and he can see her – long blond hair, icy blue eyes fill his vision, and he remembers the temptation. The way he’d wanted to give in, the way he’d considered just caving. The sensation of her –

“How many lives depend on our success?” he asks instead, trying to push aside the memories. He tries to think of Cecilia instead, of long dark hair and honey gold eyes, lips that pout and feel like the softest pillows against his when he kisses her.

 

_I should be taking it, to keep her safe._

“I swore myself to this cause,” he grits out, hating himself. “I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry. I – I should be taking it.”

The words taste like ash in his mouth, bitter and choking.

He hates himself, he hates his desperation, his confidence – he should have known it was impossible. He had been so sure of himself, when it was only him.

But for Cecilia, to keep her safe…

The thought of something happening to her because of his choice, thinking that he might fail, breaks him and he lets out a cry as he punches the bookshelf beside him.

“I should be taking it.”

“C-Cullen?”

The soft voice surprises him, and he turns to stare behind him, momentarily distracted from the aching pain coursing through his hand.

Celia is standing in the doorway of the office, her full bottom lip caught between her teeth and her eyes wide. She’s glancing between him and Bron, terror and concern evident on her face as she takes in the scene.

“C-Celia, please – now is not the -” Cullen begins, but she steps forward, shaking her head adamantly.

“Yes, it is,” she says firmly, and then she glances at the Inquisitor. “Could you please give us some privacy? I – I need to speak with him.”

“But we were -”

“Celia, please -”

“Now,” she says, her tone brooking no denial of her demand. “Cullen, I – I have to speak with you.”

“Later -”

“No, now,” she says, and there’s intensity in her gaze that he can’t place. “I have to speak with you, right now. I can’t wait, it’s – it’s incredibly important, my heart.”

 

* * *

 

 She had thought she could prevent it.

He had seemed better, having her with him, and maybe _Perseverance_ wasn’t going to be an issue with her here. He had support, comfort, love, a way to relieve stress and someone to soothe his night terrors.

But lately he had been resisting coming to bed, and he’d been distant.

She had refrained from telling him, she had refrained from adding to his stresses. It was precarious after Halamshiral, she’d been able to tell how overwhelmed he was. Maybe if she gave him space, he’d come around, and certainly if she withheld telling him about _that_ for the time being…

Instead though she saw him racing from talking to Cassandra, looking horribly frustrated as he hurried across the courtyard, and she realized her fears were still coming true.

“What is it, my dear? Didn’t you want me to do a – what did you call it? ‘Check up?’” Dorian had asked her as she moved away from him.

“Later,” she had told him absently, and then had hurried across the battlements.

 

_No, no, no, no – Bron is a Templar._

_No._

She had been right to worry, she could tell. Ever since Dorian had told her she had tried to figure out how to tell Cullen, how to break the news without adding to his stress.

Now, she just needs to do it before it’s too late, before Bron convinces him to get back on lyrium.

He has so much more to live for now than he realizes.

And so she had run up the stairs, along the battlements, had bumped into a few scouts along her way. She ignored the hurried apologies from the men, as if they were scared she would tell the Commander they had run into her instead of the other way around.

 

_Everyone knows we’re together, seems like._

_They’ll certainly know soon enough, when I start showing more obviously._

The only bit she’d gotten from Dorian’s “check up” had been a length.

A little over two months.

Only seven more months to go.

How long will it take to fix Thedas? Will she be having babies running around Skyhold while he leads their forces, will she have a child when he goes to fight in the Arbor Wilds? Or will she still be pregnant, worrying that the father of her unborn child might not come home?

The thought was too much to bear and had made her hurry faster along the battlements.

She had yanked the door to the tower open, hoping she was in time, that he hadn’t taken any yet.

And now, Bron is standing with a glare, looking between Cecilia and Cullen, who looks like he just punched the bookcase.

Even without actually hearing it in person, she can remember the sound of pain in his voice during all of this, and it makes her even more desperate.

“Inquisitor, please, if I may have a moment -” Cecilia begins again, not taking her eyes off Cullen. Her heart is racing, her hands shaking. She almost feels like she’s going to black out from her nerves, but she swallows hard and takes a deep breath.

“Lady Cecilia, please -”

“Celia -”

“I already said it’s important, please,” she implores them, but Bron opens his mouth again to protest, still standing as if he has no intentions to leave. Before she can stop herself, the words come pouring out in a rush. “Cullen, I’m with child.”

His shoulders almost slump, his mouth falling open as his eyes widen. Pure shock is evident on his face, and for several moments he simply stares before he seems to shake himself as if to clear his mind. “Inquisitor, if you – if you don’t mind giving us some privacy,” he finally says.

Cecilia feels her cheeks heating and her heart racing as she watches Bron slink out of the office, unable to tell by the look on his face whether or not he wants to protest and stay.

Silence greets his passing, and her mind churns as she tries to think of what to say. She shouldn’t have told him like that, but it’s too late to take it back.

“I – I’m so sorry, Cullen, I shouldn’t have – not like that, I just, um,” she stutters out. She has no idea how to explain her rush to tell him without letting him know she knew what he was about to do.

He’s staring at the floor, and she can tell his jaw is clenching, his cheeks flexing, and he’s shaking out the hand that he used to take out his frustration on the bookshelf. She can’t tell if he’s angry, though, and she presses her lips together as she waits for him to say something.

“I – are you – you are certain?” he finally asks, glancing up at her. She can’t read the expression on his face, watching as his amber eyes wander over her face before they fixate on her gaze.

“Yes,” she answers softly. “I’m – I’m pregnant. About two months, Dorian said, well, that was about as much as he could tell.”

She’s rambling, and presses her lips together again as she clenches her fists to stop their shaking. He’s still simply staring at her, as if he’s so shocked he can’t find the right words.

After another moment of silence, he suddenly almost stumbles back and leans his head against the bookshelves.

“Mi alma, I -” she hurries forward, worried for him, but suddenly he starts laughing.

“I – I should have been more careful, I – I did not think, I -” he shakes his head and looks around the office for a moment. “You are – you are with child. M- _my_ child -”

“Cullen, I know we should have been more careful, and I’m sorry I just came barging in here, I -”

“The Winter Palace, you,” he looks up at her, his brows furrowed. “This is why you were sick?”

“Yes, and Dorian – he felt the heartbeat, he – well, he confirmed it,” she explains, her voice wavering in her nervousness. She still can’t tell what his reaction is, and she wishes she could because the anxiety is making her feel faint.

 

_What if he leaves me?_

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, and she’s thrown by how soft and tender his voice is.

“I – you were so stressed, and I – I was scared,” she confesses. “I mean, this is sudden, and we hardly – I don’t know. I was – I was worried you’d leave me, cast me aside.”

He frowns sharply and shakes his head. “How could you think that? I meant what I said, Celia – I love you,” he pushes himself away from the bookshelf. “I am – I am shocked, I’ll be honest. But I am actually…pleased.”

“I love you too,” she tells him when he stops before her and places his hands on her shoulders. “I just didn’t know if you’d be happy, I thought maybe you’d be upset, that you wouldn’t want it -”

“I want it more than I should admit,” he tells her. “And I have wanted it for longer than I should admit, but I – I do want this. It is still a surprise, I – Maker, this is just…”

He trails off and his fingers tighten where he holds her. Something in his face looks confused, or pained, and she suddenly worries if she did add to his stress.

“Are you all right, mon cœur?” she reaches up and cups his cheek with her hand, caressing his stubble covered skin with her thumb.

“I was – struggling, today,” he confesses softly. “I was not certain why I was pushing myself so hard, but I think perhaps I was trying to – atone for things in my past. I kept thinking of you, and how – how unworthy I feel. I wanted to try harder to deserve even just the thought of a future with you.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but tears are coming to her eyes and she can’t find the right words to tell him what she wants to.

 

_There’s nothing to forgive._

_None of it was your fault._

_I love you, knowing what I do._

_You do deserve me, and I – I love you._

But the tangle of thoughts all bubbles to the surface until she can’t even get out one sentiment, and instead she hooks her hand behind his neck and pulls him down.

Their lips touch and at first it’s soft, gentle reassurance. She wraps her arms around his neck to try to get closer, wanting to feel his arms around her, his skin against hers. Fear and anxiety that he would leave her is dissipating as he eagerly returns her kiss, as the words _“I am pleased”_ echo in her mind.

It wasn’t expected, but somehow they’re both happy about it.

“Beloved,” he pulls away from the kiss, and for a moment stares down into her eyes. “Go up to the loft, I’ll join you in a moment.”

She breaks into a wide smile and nods, realizing what he intends. Somehow, it feels perfect and she eagerly turns and hurries to the ladder to comply.

They’ve been distant, as she tried to figure out how to tell him and he struggled with his withdrawals. The idea of finding their way back to one another, of bridging this gap and moving forward with their future is thrilling.

Their future.

The thought floods her with happiness as she pictures it, and she rushes across the loft and begins to strip her clothes off. Below she can hear him locking the doors before his heavy footsteps cross to the ladder and it creaks beneath his weight.

Her tummy is rounding slightly, barely noticeable to anyone except her. She had begun to think a constant diet of mostly stew and bread had made her begin to gain weight, but now she can tell exactly where and how it’s beginning to grow.

 

_A little him._

 

She smiles as she lays on the bed, propping herself on an elbow to watch him move around the loft. He shoots her glances as he begins to remove his armor, his hands working quickly on the buckles and fastenings. The gleam in his eyes, the way he’s smirking at her, is all setting her heart to racing, and she bites her lower lip with anticipation.

When he’s stripped out of his breeches he walks to the edge of the bed, still smiling and holding her gaze as he approaches. He stretches himself across her, pinning her to the bed with his whole body as his mouth captures hers.

His kiss is languid, all consuming, and she finds herself nearly suffocating under his attention. Everything they haven’t said to one another the last few weeks is present in the way his lips move against hers, in the way his tongue moves so eagerly to taste her.

When her lips begin to feel almost swollen from the intensity of his kiss, he raises his head and smiles down at her. Words still aren’t necessary though, and soon he begins to slide his mouth down her neck, gently sucking and nipping her skin before he starts to shower her chest with kisses as well.

He holds her full breasts in his hands, running his tongue over her nipples tenderly, gently, and when she whines slightly at the sensation he raises his gaze.

“Are you all right, beloved?” he asks, his brows furrowing slightly.

“I – sorry, everything’s a bit tender,” she tells him, and she feels herself flush.

He wiggles his eyebrows slightly before he lowers his head once more and presses soft kisses to her nipples. “I’ll be gentle with you, Celia,” he murmurs, and he continues the feather-light touch of his lips on her skin. “You look so beautiful like this, I should have noticed you were getting a bit rounder, fuller.”

She wants to cringe at the words but something makes her heart start racing and she realizes it’s because she knows why she is, and because he sounds so happy that it’s happening.

“So beautiful,” he tells her again, and he slides his mouth down to her navel, leaving a wet trail to mark his lips’ passing.

He runs one large hand over her belly, tracing the way it’s beginning to round, the way it protrudes the slightest bit. It’s only noticeable to him because of how well he knows her body, and she realizes he would have likely figured it out if they had been intimate after that night in Halamshiral.

“Beloved, you’re – you’re growing, and it’s – it’s mine.” His voice cracks slightly on the last word, the tone more tender even than the way he whispers _‘mine’_ in her ear sometimes when he’s inside her. “I hate to admit how much I had pictured you rounding out like this, from me, because I had taken you and gotten you with child.”

She moans as he says it, his breath tickling her navel as he ghosts his hands over the inside of her thighs, spreading them for him.

“I was picturing you filled by me so often after we made love,” he murmurs. “Now that it’s happened, I – beloved, I can’t put into words how much you mean to me.”

He raises his gaze to hers as he shifts on the bed, taking his place between her spread legs. She’s fairly certain she hears him whisper the word _‘beautiful’_ one last time before he lowers his mouth to her sex.

Crying out as soon as his tongue slides against her, she almost feels ready to lose herself right away. Her nerves are already in overdrive, everything sensitive and aching for him with his child growing inside of her.

Just as he promised, he’s gentle, sliding and swirling his tongue on her pearl in a slow, steady rhythm as he holds her gaze. When she whimpers he slows even further until she’s certain he’s teasing her to prolong it as much as he can.

“C-Cullen, mi alma, _please_ , I -” she desperately cries, her limbs quaking around him.

The word has the same effect on him that it always does, and he speeds his tongue for a moment to get her to the edge once more. As soon as she gasps and tries to roll her hips against him he tightens his hold on her to still her and slows his pace once more.

Her love cries become louder when he resumes his motions, still slowly stroking her with his tongue. The slow, steady rhythm pushes her over the edge and her mind goes blank as her whole body shakes, her release soft but intense, leaving her breathless and unable to focus on anything except this feeling.

She goes limp, trying to catch her breath, and he finally begins to kiss his way back to her navel, leaving slightly wet stickiness from her release across her flesh as he does so.

“You taste as good as you look, beloved, every time,” he purrs, and he props himself above her. With one fluid motion he pulls her thighs around him and slides himself into her to the hilt. She’s so aroused that feeling his thick cock sheathing itself within her makes her sob his name, her legs clenching tight around him.

He begins moving, gently, holding himself above her slightly as if worried to press all of his weight onto her stomach. His movements are even, his carefully measured pace rocking and pressing her gently into the mattress. Each time he pushes into her she gasps, and every time he withdraws she moans to lament the loss of him deep within her.

There have been times that they were emotional and loving to one another, times that he was rough with her, times that he was demanding and commanded her to follow his orders. Each time she had obeyed, her body quaking with anticipation for his eagerness to claim her and make her his with his words.

But now, the tender way he’s taking her, the gentle way he’s making love to her is exciting her to new heights. Every time with him has been wonderful, unlike anything she’s experienced before. Yet now the way he’s using his body to tell her he loves her is leaving her feeling more claimed than any of the times he’s acted possessive or called her _‘mine.’_

He presses his thumb to her swollen pearl, swirling and stroking it until she’s sobbing desperately, still thrusting into her at the same even pace he has been the whole time. She falls apart, his name pouring from her throat unbidden as she loses herself completely.

 

_His – his, for as long as he’ll have me._

_Mother of his child, something that can’t ever be taken from me._

_He loves me, and I love him._

He finishes not long after her, groaning her name as he thrusts deep, pushing as far into her as he can as if he can’t get close enough to the core of her being. When he stills he leans over her and presses soft kisses to her lips, his elbows resting above her shoulders.

“I could spend forever making love to you, listening to you say my name like that while I’m inside of you,” he tells her softly. The look on his face is tender, full of a wonder she’s never seen on it.

It almost looks like pure contentment, pure happiness, even more than he’s expressed in the past, and her heart flutters in response to the sight of it.

“Mi alma,” she whispers, reaching up to run her fingers through his golden hair. “I love you.”

“Marry me, Celia,” he responds, cupping her cheek with his hand as he smiles down at her shocked face.


	36. The Truth

_Say yes._

 

“I -” she stares at him, disbelief coursing through her, overwhelmed by so many emotions she can’t even begin to figure out what she’s thinking.

 

_Say yes._

_He’s asking you to marry him and you love him. You’re carrying his child._

_Wait – is that why? Would he be asking if I wasn’t pregnant?_

Sudden doubt and bitterness overwhelms her, so abruptly that she feels her brows furrow sharply. Cullen seems to notice, his face mirroring her frown as he peers down at her.

“Are you – are you all right, beloved? I am sorry, was that – was that sudden? I just -”

“Is it – do you really want to marry me?” she asks, unable to resist. “Or do you just think – do you just think that we _should?_ ”

“What?” his frown increases and he begins to shake his head, moving one of his hands to brush hair off her face. “Celia, I – maybe I should have gone about this differently, I should have asked you at another time. I meant to ask you, when I – when I felt worthy of you. I was just so overwhelmed, because of the news, because of how you look at me when you say I love you. I couldn’t resist asking.”

“So you mean it? You love me? You don’t just want to marry me because I’m with child?” her voice is timid, hesitant, and she hates how it wavers. But she’s scared, worried that they could both make this decision for the wrong reasons.

“I love you, Cecilia,” he answers, his voice firm, unwavering. “You are…I have never felt anything like this.”

Her heart feels like it stops, its rhythm so sporadic and fast she can tell it possibly actually skipped a beat.

Those words – but he’s saying them to her.

He’s looking at her like this, reiterating and assuring her that he loves her, that he wants to marry her. That he wants a future with her, a child.

His child.

She lowers a hand to rest on her stomach, still staring up at him.

“I feel the same,” she whispers.

“I have never shared so much of myself with someone,” he muses, still using one hand to stroke hair off her face. “I never expected to be so comfortable with anyone else, or that I would – it has been so long since I wanted anyone in my life. But I want you in my life, forever, beloved. If you’ll have me.”

She smiles, feeling tears coming to her eyes, but very quickly she feels her insides turn icy.

 

_I have never shared so much of myself with someone._

_Shit – I have to tell him. I can’t marry him, I can’t let him marry me without telling him._

_I can’t do that to him, he deserves to know._

Her face falls into a frown again, and again his face mirrors hers. “Beloved? Something on your mind? You look troubled.”

“I – I want that too, Cullen, but I – I need to – I have to -”

She trails off, her hands shaking and her heart racing. Pushing lightly on his chest she manages to sit up, scooting back against the headboard. She feels naked, exposed, and pulls her knees up to her chest to wrap her arms around, as if that can help anchor her for what’s about to happen.

 

_This could end everything._

Her eyes roam over his face as he sits on the bed before her, his brows furrowed in a curious frown. There’s tenderness in his gaze though, and she almost wonders if it’s the last time she’ll see him looking at her like this.

Just in case it is, she waits another moment, drinking it in.

 

_At least I’ll always have this moment, this moment when he’s looking at me like this, after saying such sweet words to me._

“Cu-Cullen, I need to tell you something,” she begins, swallowing hard and staring at the sheets draped over her knees. She can’t look at him, she can’t see how the look in his eyes will change.

“You can tell me anything, Celia,” he murmurs, and he reaches over with a large hand to rest reassuringly on her forearm.

“I – I knew you,” she breathes, her voice barely a whisper. It comes tumbling out of her mouth, her nerves preventing her from easing into it. Her heart is pounding so loudly she wonders whether or not he can hear it.

“You what?” he asks, and she glances up briefly to see the bemused look on his face.

“I – when I came here. I knew you. I knew Thedas, I knew – I knew it all,” she continues, her voice shaking as she speaks, just like the rest of her. Tightening her hands where they grip her upper arms, she keeps her eyes fixated on the sheets in front of her.

“I – I’m not certain I understand, Celia,” he says slowly. “What do you mean you knew?”

“I knew where I was,” she tells him. “I still – I don’t know how I got here, that part is still a mystery. But I knew Thedas, I knew Haven, I knew you and Cassandra, even Rylen when he found me.”

“I – so you are from here? How – how else could you know -”

“You’re a – a story,” she hesitates on the word, not entirely sure how to make him understand. “In my land. You’re a – a game, a story. I played it, I knew the tale. I – I knew you. I didn’t know it was real, I didn’t know that you – that you existed. That I could ever possibly end up here -”

“A – a game?” he shifts slightly on the bed and it creaks under his weight.

He shifts away from her, as if he’s pulling back, and the tone in his voice makes her look up.

“I – I don’t know how to explain it, Cullen,” she tells him, fighting back the tears threatening to render her speechless. The look on his face is tearing through her. “I – a story is the closest I can come up with -”

“Do you – did you know about Haven? Is that how? You were acting – I couldn’t figure out how you knew -”

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes, and the tears finally begin to fall, streaking down her cheeks in warm rivulets. “I was scared, I thought you’d kill me if I told you -”

“You thought I would – is that what you thought of me? That I would kill you?” his voice comes out harsh and she flinches.

“At first we couldn’t speak to one another, and I – I was so scared,” she admits. “I knew you were a good man, but I – I also never expected you to be real. I didn’t know what to think.”

For a moment he’s silent, and when she glances up at him she can tell he looks like he’s thinking, dragging one hand over the stubble gracing his jaw. “If – if you know of me,” he looks at her, frowning, “does that mean – do you know everything about me?”

She presses her lips together and closes her eyes, not wanting to see the look on his face as she nods her answer.

“Everything?” he chokes out, his voice cracking slightly with the weight of the word. “K-Kirkwall, and – and Kinloch? My withdrawals?”

“Yes,” she breathes, finally opening her eyes again to see the pained expression on his face. “I – I’ve always known.”

“You knew me, and you – why? Why did you – you let me begin a relationship with you -”

“Cullen, none of this has been fake, I’ve meant every word,” she cries. “I love you, I love you even knowing everything I do -”

“But you didn’t tell me, you – did you not trust me? Were you – setting up some plot, some scheme? Why would you not tell me?”

“I was scared you would leave me, or push me away,” she leans her forehead on her knees, sobs overtaking her. “I didn’t know what you would think -”

“So you did not let me decide for myself?” he finally pushes himself off the bed, and for a moment he stands staring around the loft as if he is lost. “I – I need to think.”

“Wait, Cullen -”

“No, Cecilia, I need to – I need fresh air, I need to think about everything.”

He quickly pulls on his breeches and his shirt before he crosses the loft to the ladder.

“Cullen, please wait -”

But he doesn’t wait, instead descending the ladder quickly as it creaks under his weight. She can hear his heavy footsteps crossing to one of the doors. It swings open and slams shut with a deafening bang, leaving only silence and her sobs in his wake.


	37. Happiness

_I knew you._

 

He’s been walking the battlements for so long that it’s dark now, his feet cold and numb on the rough stone. He should have thought to put his boots on, but his mind had been racing.

It still is.

He doesn’t know what to think. Thought after thought keeps running across his mind until he can’t keep them straight or separate them. All that keeps coming back to him is her words, her confession.

 

_I knew you._

_Everything._

If she knows everything, that explains how she knew his name, how she had laughed when she first saw him. How she had acted around the fall of Haven, why she had yelled at him about recruiting the Templars and not the mages.

Deep down he’s almost wondering if he had suspected, if he had known that she knew more than she let on and simply ignored his inklings that she did.

 

_A story._

_A game._

Like this, matters of life and death, his own life, as if they were just something to be treated lightly, for sport.

He has half a mind to tell Leliana, to have the spymaster try to get more information out of her. If she’s known everything that’s happened so far, doesn’t that mean she knows what will happen?

But then the image of honey gold eyes peering up at him crosses his mind, and he realizes he can’t turn her over to Leliana. He pictures the look on her face, the way she says _‘I love you.’_ The way she looked at him when he asked her to marry him.

The way she looked at him when he said he was glad she’s with child.

He still means it, despite everything.

The realization crashes down on him and he leans his hands on the stone of the ramparts and hangs his head, clenching his eyes shut. She lied to him, she hid the truth from him, she knew who he was and yet she let him fall in love with her.

He wants to be angrier, but somehow he can’t be.

Something else she said comes to mind, helping to banish the lingering doubt.

 

_I knew you were a good man._

_I love you, even knowing everything I do._

 

She knows, she had always known. About Kinloch, about Kirkwall, about the sins of his past. And yet she still looks at him in that tender way, she’s still worked hard to help ease his burdens, to help him with his withdrawals, she’s tried to soothe his night terrors and pains.

She’s constantly worked to reassure him that he’s a good man.

And he realizes he believes that she means it. The look in her beautiful eyes always hints at perfect honesty, every time she’s worked to tell him she wants to help him. Every time she’s said she loves him.

He believes that she does. And he knows that he still loves her, even if he has questions.

With a sigh he pushes away from the ramparts and drags a hand over the stubble on his chin, rubbing it absently as he thinks.

How much does this really change? It hasn’t changed his feelings, which surprises him. It’s like a mystery has been solved, and even though at first he was furious, now all he knows is that he wants to speak with her.

How long has he been gone? He looks around and takes in the quiet of the keep, the patrols walking the courtyard and the battlements, the two moons hanging high in the sky granting meager light to his surroundings.

He hadn’t meant to be gone for quite so long, and he suddenly realizes he hopes she hasn’t done anything drastic because of how he had left the tower. He grimaces, thinking of how he rushed out, of how he slammed the door behind him. He had been shocked, but he shouldn’t have snapped at her that way.

He stands for a moment more, thinking, and then he realizes he left before supper time, and it has to be long after now.

 

_She’s carrying your child, eating for two, and you stormed out like a child throwing a tantrum._

 

With that scolding thought he hurries to the stairs that lead down to the courtyard, and he hurries past and ignores patrols who hop into salutes when they see him. Making his way to the kitchens, he almost barges in, scaring the cook and her helpers.

“A-apologies,” he mutters, and then grabs a wooden tray from the sideboard. “I need – uh, actually, I am not certain what I need.”

He hesitates for a moment, looking around. It’s been years since his mother had been pregnant with Rosalie, and he had only been a young lad then.

 

_What can she eat? What should she eat? What can’t she eat?_

“I – I need help,” he confesses, looking up at the cook.

When he finally leaves the kitchen, the tray he’s carrying is heavily laden with fresh fruits, vegetables, a loaf of bread, some smoked meat and cheeses as well as a skin of fresh water. The cook had insisted on sending it all, fussing as soon as he told her he was feeding the mother of his child.

Carefully balancing the tray he makes his way across the keep to his tower, hoping that she stayed there, that she didn’t run off because of his boorish attitude. Upon opening the door to his office he finds that it’s dark, the candles all burnt out.

He hears a soft shifting noise above, as if someone is rolling over in the bed, and he smiles to himself as he crosses to the ladder. He manages to balance the tray in one hand, using the other to climb up, moving more slowly than normal to keep the heavy tray from slipping out of his grasp.

“C-Cullen?” a soft voice calls from the loft, and he hates how it cracks as if she’s been crying.

He’ll make it right, he’ll make it better.

“It’s just me, beloved,” he answers as he pulls himself up the last rung of the ladder.

“I – I didn’t – I didn’t expect you back,” she murmurs, and a pang of guilt tears through him.

“Of course I came back,” he tells her as he crosses to the bed and sets the tray down on the end. He can barely see in the dark, and he walks to the dresser to find a candle. His flint is downstairs, and he sighs when he thinks of climbing back down to get it.

But he remembers the strange – lighter? – that she had, and he opens the drawer of the dresser to dig through the contents. When he finds it he flicks open the silver lid and then uses his thumb to turn the wheel, just as she showed him all of those months ago.

Flame springs to life at the action and he lights a few candles before he shuts the lid to extinguish the lighter. He returns it to its place in the drawer and grabs the candles to place beside the bed on the small wooden nightstand.

Turning his gaze to hers, his insides immediately twist with guilt when he sees the splotchy color of her cheeks and how puffy and red her eyes are. She looks as if she’s been crying for hours.

“Celia,” he murmurs, and he sits beside her on the bed and brushes hair off her wet cheeks. “I am sorry, I – I should not have run off like that -”

“No, I’m sorry, Cullen, I shouldn’t have waited – I should have told you sooner. You asked me so many times, you – you were right. I let you start a relationship with me, I – I’m so sorry, I – I can get my things -”

Her voice chokes and she begins crying again, her head hanging as her shoulders shake.

“What? Why?” he asks, frowning as he cups her cheeks with his hands, wiping her tears away with his thumbs.

“I – I understand if you don’t want me anymore, I lied to you – I can leave -” she cries, avoiding his gaze.

“Celia, beloved, listen to me,” he tells her, and he pulls her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair. “I love you. That has not changed. I should not have stormed out like that, but I was – shocked. I just needed some time.”

“You – you still love me?” she asks, her voice muffled from how she’s nuzzling against his chest.

“Yes, I do,” he assures her. “In fact I – what you said, about how you knew my past and loved me anyway, I – I never expected that anyone could. I never thought anyone could love a man like me, not after everything I’ve done.”

“You’re a good man, Cullen,” she raises her head to look up at him, giving him a watery smile. “I wish you could see yourself as I see you, my soul.”

Somehow now, hearing those words after everything, he feels his heart soar. She means it, she always has. She knew all along, and called him _‘my heart, my soul.’_

“I don’t deserve you,” he mutters, pulling her against him once more and pressing his lips to her forehead. “I – I still have questions, Celia. But please – stay with me. Marry me.”

She cries harder at the words, her arms tightening around him as she tries to scoot closer. He pulls her into his lap and rocks her gently, still pressing kisses to her forehead and her hair.

“Yes, Cullen,” she tells him after a moment, and giggles escape through her tears. “Yes, I will. I – I love you. I love you so much, my heart, my soul.”

“I love you, Celia,” he pulls back so that he can glance down at her, staring into shimmering honey gold eyes. She’s smiling brightly even though she’s crying, and he presses his lips to her cheeks to kiss away her tears.

“I – I brought you food,” he tells her, finally releasing her after one last watery kiss. “I told the cook, I had her prepare a tray for you since I was not certain what you could eat. I figured you had not eaten supper.”

She giggles and wipes her cheeks, looking at the tray he set at the end of the bed. “You’re right, I – I just stayed here, I thought – I thought we were through.”

He shakes his head, again feeling guilt and shame twisting his insides. “I am sorry,” he apologizes again. “I did not mean to make you worry like that, I just – needed some time.”

“I didn’t mean to spring it on you, I know you – I know you were struggling today,” she shoots him a furtive glance as she picks over the fresh fruit and vegetables. “I just – I couldn’t say yes without telling you.”

“I – I appreciate it, even if I acted like a boor,” he sighs and rubs the back of his neck. His stomach grumbles, reminding him that he hasn't eaten either, and he reaches for the loaf of bread, tearing off a large chunk. “I should have handled it better.”

“I should have as well,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was – at first I was scared, and then once we – once we made love, I didn’t know how to tell you.”

He thinks as he chews, trying to decide how to ask the question that’s plaguing him. Once he swallows he glances at her and takes a deep breath. “Did you – did you always like me? Did you – were you trying to -” He trails off, uncertain how to phrase it, but she giggles and he raises an eyebrow at her.

“I had a crush on you,” she confesses, but when she sees the bemused frown he gives her in response to the word she hums slightly and then nods. “I – I did like you. I knew your story, I knew – I knew you, as I said. And I – I liked you. When I saw you in front of me, I was – stunned. I didn’t think you were real, and then you were and I – I don’t know how to explain it. I was so shy, and we couldn’t talk at all.”

He nods as he listens to her, thinking back over the way she used to look at him, before they could understand one another. She always looked like she wanted to say something, like she wanted to be able to communicate with him about something. The thought that perhaps she admired him and was trying to find a way to tell him makes him smile despite himself.

“You – you always liked me?” he asks, feeling less guilty about the way he had fantasized about taking her almost from the first moment he saw her.

“I did,” she giggles. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t ever sure how to explain that. And then you were so sweet to me, and you took care of me, and then you – you kissed me. I felt like I was living a dream come true.”

He raises his eyebrows at her. “You liked me that much?”

She presses her lips together and nods, blushing as if she's embarrassed.

“I – that makes me feel better,” he chuckles. “I felt the same, as soon as I saw you.”

“Really?” she raises her gaze to his again, looking surprised.

“Yes,” he tells her. “And I – I wish you had told me sooner, but – I’m glad I know now.”

For a moment she’s silent as she nibbles at a piece of cheese, but then she sighs and gives him a furtive glance. “I’m sorry about Haven, Cullen,” she whispers. “I – I wanted to tell you but I panicked. I thought you’d kill me, that you’d suspect me of spying or being involved. I tried and then I just – I panicked. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he sighs. “I’m not certain how I would have reacted, and I – I’m not certain how much it would have changed. I may not have believed you, and it still would have happened the same way.”

She nods slightly but frowns. “I’ve been worried I could mess things up if I tell too much,” she confesses. “That’s part of it.”

“Do you – do you know what happens?” he asks, feeling his heart race slightly, nervous at the prospect of finding out.

“Possibly,” she admits. “But – if I tell, what if things go worse? What if – what if I tell and it fucks everything up? Like going back in time and ruining the present because you say the wrong thing or step on a butterfly?”

He frowns, mulling over her words. “You – you’ve traveled back in -”

“No, no, I just – I just mean as a for instance,” she sighs. “I’m scared I could ruin things. Please, just – don’t ask me. Things – things will be fine if I don’t tell. The Inquisition just needs to keep doing what it’s doing.”

He holds her gaze and then sighs, taking another bite of smoked meat as he considers. “All right, Celia. I’ll trust you.”

She reaches over with a hand and rests it on his arm, squeezing lightly. “Thank you, my heart. I’m – I promise, from here on, only the truth.”

“From me as well,” he smiles at her and places a hand on top of hers. “You still don’t know how you got here?”

“No,” she sighs. “Dorian thinks it was related to the Breach, but I still don’t remember anything.”

He nods and then leans forward to kiss her on the forehead. “However you got here, I’m still glad that you did. I love you, Cecilia, and I – Maker, you’re going to be my wife, the mother of my child.”

He trails off for a moment, lost in thought. The realization of her answer crashes over him and he feels a happiness he never thought he would, one that he thought he couldn't ever deserve. Love, a wife, a family – he still isn’t certain he's earned any of this, but he knows he’ll spend the rest of his life doing his best to be worthy of her, to be worthy of all of it.

He's pulled out of his musings by her giggling.

“I’m still getting used to the idea too,” she confesses. “Cecilia Rutherford. I – I think I like the sound of that.”

“I do as well, beloved,” he says, his heart soaring when he sees the tender, loving smile she gives him.


	38. Sleeping Soundly, Sharing All Your Secrets

_Green lightning is forking across the sky, in intricate patterns she’s never seen before, green like the swirling vortex._

_A tornado?_

_She reaches for her phone, looking away from the road briefly to search her bag. Maybe there’s an alert she missed, maybe there’s a storm warning –_

_Glancing back up at the road, she gasps when she sees something – someone – tall and white running in front of her, long reddish brown hair streaming behind them. She swerves to avoid them, her car loses control and begins to flip, and she’s tossed from side to side._

_A flash of green, bright, a scream, maybe. Something unnatural, eerie, like an explosion._

_She feels like she’s falling, surrounded by blackness._

_Did she pass out?_

_Silence, so sudden after the roar of the explosion, and her ears are ringing._

_She’s conscious, all she has to do is open her eyes, but it’s difficult. Everything feels heavy, sluggish._

_“Celia – Celia, kiddo, wake up.”_

_“Mon trésor, wake up, you’re here.”_

_Here? Where’s here?_

_Those voices – she hasn’t heard them in years, not since –_

_She opens her eyes finally, greeted by the sight of green in the sky, but there are tendrils of black smoke. Rocky ground, below and also above her, around her. It looks familiar, but she knows she hasn’t ever been here._

_Or has she?_

_“Kiddo, it’s all right, you’re – you’re here,” one of the voices says again, and it sounds as if it is coming from her right. There’s heavy emotion in it, as if the person is surprised, but pleased._

_She turns her head, trying to see, and as soon as she catches sight, her breath catches in her throat._

_“D-Dad?” she murmurs, her voice cracking on the name._

_It can’t be, it can’t be him, and yet it is, he’s kneeling there beside her with a kind smile on his face._

_But if he’s here, then she must be –_

_“I – I died, didn’t I?” she asks, her heart sinking._

_“No, mon trésor, you’re not dead,” another voice says, and she turns her head to look behind her._

_“Maman?” she feels tears spring to her eyes, staring with wonder at the sight of a face she hasn’t seen in years. “I’m – if I’m not dead where am I? Am I – am I in a coma? Am I dying?”_

_Her heart begins racing, and if it’s racing like this, so palpably, how can she be dead or dying, or in a dream?_

_“No, Cecilia, you’re not dying,” her mother answers, and she brushes long reddish brown hair over her shoulder. She’s wearing a white dress, long and flowing, like she used to around the house._

_“It – it was you,” Celia murmurs, finally pushing herself up so that she can look around. “How? And where – holy shit.”_

_I know this place, but – how?_

_“Is this – the Fade?” Cecilia asks, turning with her mouth agape to stare at her parents._

_The Fade isn’t – can’t be – real. It’s from a game, a fiction, Thedas and the Fade aren’t real._

_Are they?_

_But the green lightning, the vortex – it had looked familiar, though she hadn’t dared believe it._

_“What the – I must be in a coma, I hit my head, I – something. This makes no sense -”_

_“Kiddo, we don’t have a lot of time,” her father says, and he pushes off his knees and reaches a hand out to her to pull her to her feet. “You’ve got a choice to make and not a lot of time to make it in.”_

_“Come along, Cecilia,” her mother agrees in her softly accented voice, and she gestures for her to come with her, smiling so that her eyes wrinkle just as they used to. “This way.”_

 

With a jerk Cecilia wakes up, and her heart is racing, her forehead slightly sweaty. She’s tangled in the sheets and blankets in the bed, as if she had been thrashing.

Sunlight is pouring in through the hole in the roof of the loft, and it takes her a moment to fully adjust to being awake.

Her stomach lurches suddenly though, nausea hitting her as she tries to push herself up on her elbows, and she swiftly leans over the edge of the bed. Thankfully there’s a bucket there, and as she heaves up the contents of her stomach she begins to remember.

Morning sickness.

It had hit her while she was trying to work with Josephine earlier that day, and she had had to beg off the rest of the day’s work. She had thought a nap would help, since exhaustion had also been overwhelming her until her eyes were struggling to stay open. Cullen had fussed when she came back to the tower, had tucked her into bed and placed a bucket and water beside the bed and tried to linger until she insisted he return to work.

She had hoped that sleeping would make her feel better, but now she’s clammy and still so nauseated.

“Celia?” she hears the deep call from the office below, and not a moment passes before the scraping of a chair being pushed back and heavy footsteps follow it.

When he finishes climbing up the ladder, Cullen hurries to the side of the bed and kneels beside where she’s still leaning over the bucket.

“Maker’s breath, are you all right, beloved? Do you need Dorian, or maybe -” he brushes her hair aside, helping to hold it out of the way, his other hand rubbing gentle circles on her back.

“I’m – I’m fine,” she answers after a moment, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Just morning sickness, it’s normal.”

“You’ve been sick all day, I’m worried for you,” he murmurs, and when she glances up at him she sees how deeply furrowed his brows are.

“It’s – this is pregnancy,” she says with a shrug, and then she giggles. As sick as she feels, she’s still giddy with delight, especially when she sees the worried way he’s fussing over her.

He looks adorable, as he moves to sit on the edge of the bed in his full armor, staring at her like a lost puppy. Raising a hand to his mouth he tugs his glove off with his teeth and then sets it aside, maintaining his hold on her hair in case she gets sick again. He presses his bare hand to her forehead, and then her cheeks.

“You are not hot but you are sweaty,” he sighs.

“I was – I was having a – well not really a bad dream, but a vivid one,” she tells him, her brows furrowing as well as she thinks back on it.

It can’t have been.

It was just a dream.

“A dream? What about?” he asks, and he almost sounds a little alarmed.

“I – it was about how I got here,” she answers softly. “But it can’t have been true, it’s probably just my hormones, I know some women get odd dreams -”

“Hormones?”

“I – oh wow sometimes I forget,” she shakes her head but it makes her dizzy and she closes her eyes for a moment. “Oh god do you even know what a baby looks like at this stage or what’s – what’s going on in there?”

“Do – do you? I thought you were a translator, not a healer -”

“Well but I studied biology, on Earth it’s – it’s part of our education,” she tells him. “Anatomy, how the body works, how reproduction works, it’s – it’s all common knowledge, for the most part.”

“I see,” he frowns a bit and then tentatively reaches a hand to her stomach. “So you are saying this is normal? Dreams and sickness and – hor-hormones?”

“Yes,” she nods her head.

“So what – what does our child look like, right now?” he asks, and the tender curiosity in his question makes her smile.

“Like a – a bean, probably,” she giggles. “It’s tiny and doesn’t even really look like a baby.”

For a moment he stares at her, and then he begins to laugh. “I suppose I am not certain what I expected,” he says after a moment. “I am curious, though, this – this dream. What was happening?”

“Well, I told you that I was in an accident and then woke up outside of Haven,” she sits up straight and he finally releases her hair now that the threat of getting sick seems to have passed. “The accident, I was remembering. Something ran out in front of me on the road, and there was green lightning and a green swirling vortex in the sky. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Actually, it – it reminded me of the Breach.”

“The Breach?” he sounds shocked, his brows furrowing thoughtfully.

“At first I thought it was a storm, but really I didn’t know what to think, but it sort of reminded me of it,” she shrugs. “I didn’t know. But a person – a woman – m-my mother, ran out in front of my car – cart.”

“Your mother?” he sounds confused about why she sounds so hesitant to say it.

“I haven’t really told you, Cullen, but my parents, they – they died in an accident a few years ago,” she tells him, her voice low. The pain has lessened, but it’s still there, like a dull ache that never really goes away and takes hardly a small prod before it begins to feel worse.

“I am – I am so sorry, beloved,” he says almost immediately, and he cradles the back of her head and pulls her to him, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I understand that grief, my parents died in the Blight over a decade ago, but it – it never gets easier, does it?”

She smiles and wraps an arm around his neck, feeling more solace and understanding than she has before when she’s told someone, or even from her ex-fiancé when it happened. “No, it doesn’t,” she agrees finally, pulling back slightly and wiping at her eyes. She hadn’t realized that she’s crying. “But that’s why this could only have been a dream, I mean – my mother has been dead for a  few years, she couldn’t have run out in front of me, except that, well – _someone_ did.”

“And in your dream, it was her?” he looks thoughtful as he asks it.

“Yes, and then I – I met she and my father in the Fade, they were waking me up,” she tells him. “But I don’t remember anything, I mean I remember my accident, and then I woke up outside of Haven in the snow, with a head injury.”

“What have your dreams been like since you’ve been here?” he asks after a moment spent contemplating her.

“I – I haven’t really had any,” she frowns as she says it. “The few that I’ve had have been vivid, as if – I’m reliving that night. From the moment I found out about my fiancé’s mistress until the one I just had, being with my parents in the Fade.”

“And what was happening in the Fade? What did they say?” he prompts her, still with a curious frown on his face.

“I – they said I didn’t have much time but that I had a choice to make,” she explains, remembering the way they had seemed to be trying to rush her. “I asked if I was dead, and they said no, but that I needed to hurry.”

“Hurry to do what?”

“I – I’m not sure,” she shrugs and looks up at him. “I woke up before it got that far.”

Silence greets her words and for a moment Cullen simply stares straight ahead, nodding absently as if he’s thinking. “The Fade acts differently for mages and non-mages, and you – being from another world, I am not surprised that perhaps you lack the connection to it at all. I – I think, though, perhaps these are – memories.”

Cecilia simply stares at him, at a loss for words. Somehow, it’s like she’d forgotten what his Templar training means. Of course he has knowledge of this, of course he knows about the Fade. Perhaps not as much as Solas, but still, he would know enough.

“So you think – this really happened? I really met my parents in the Fade?” she asks as she raises her eyebrows.

She can’t tell if that thought is comforting or not.

“I think it’s possible,” he shrugs. “I am no expert – perhaps Solas or even Vivienne would be able to provide more light. Or Dorian, I know you are friendly, and he knows of your situation.”

“You’re right, I may – I may ask him,” she nods and then runs her tongue over her teeth and cringes. Her mouth feels disgusting, sour, and she leans over and reaches for the water he left by the side of the bed for her.

“Beloved, would you – would you speak with him and have him examine you? I know you say this is normal for a woman with child, but I – I would feel better,” he reaches over and brushes her hair behind her ear as he says it. He’s still frowning slightly with concern, and she feels moved from the way he’s looking at her, the way he’s so worried.

He’s acting like a lover, like a father to be.

It makes her smile, taking in the tender love he’s showing her, the care. Ferocious, confident Commander Cullen is sweetly fussing over her, tucking her in and tending to her morning sickness.

She isn’t quite certain what she did to deserve this happiness, this love that he’s showing her, even after the revelations of the previous day and night before.

“Of course, mi alma,” she agrees after a moment, and she leans forward and presses her lips to his cheek. “We can ask him this evening? I’m sure you’d love to be there.”

He eagerly nods his agreement before he begins to fuss over the blankets twisted around her.


	39. So Full of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some floof <3

“I’m not quite certain what you really want me to do, here,” the Tevinter sighs, looking between Cecilia and Cullen with a bemused frown. “I already confirmed it, my dear. What more do you want? I’m not a healer, and this ‘check up’ sounds like -”

“Please, Dorian, can’t you use – can’t you make sure everything is going well?” Cecilia cuts in, giving the man a sweet smile. “You may not be a healer but you’re an excellent mage.”

Dorian purses his lips as he stares at her, and Cullen smirks as he watches the mage try to look irritated.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear,” Dorian sighs, and he finally smirks. “All right, give me your wrist, Celia, and let’s see how this _golden_ spawn is doing, shall we?”

Cullen rolls his eyes, unable to resist. The other man’s knowing wink at him does little to ease the concern he feels. For all of Cecilia’s talk of “normal” and “ _hormones_ ,” he isn’t quite convinced that she should be sick this frequently. She’s pale, and clammy, and can’t keep any food but cheese down.

Surely that isn’t standard, but he can’t remember how his mother was with Rosalie. Then again, he had been a lad, and it had been his mother’s fourth time carrying a child. This was only Cecilia’s first.

But Maker help him, he’s already thinking about more.

Shock is still making everything feel surreal, but he’s coming to terms with it all faster than he ever thought he would. All he can think is that he had been considering it more than he realized.

He wants this, more than he knew. She had said yes, she’s going to marry him, she’s carrying his child. And he watches eagerly, albeit with apprehension, too, as Dorian takes her wrist in his and the soft sage green light of his healing magic glows between them.

They’re in the upper room of the tavern, since they found Dorian drinking with the Iron Bull, of all people, and Cecilia had managed to convince him to seek a bit of privacy. He channels magic through her wrist for a moment, and then nods slightly and gestures lower.

“Your breeches, please, my dear,” he instructs her.

Cecilia begins to undo the laces, and Cullen steps forward with a frown. “Is that necessary -”

“I’m just making certain, Commander, and trust me it isn’t anything untoward,” Dorian rolls his eyes. “If you hadn’t noticed, she’s not exactly my type. I promise not to harm your sweetheart’s modesty, though.”

Cullen grinds his teeth despite himself, realizing perhaps he needs to let the mage work his magic to make certain that everything is going well. He folds his arms across his chest, watching as Celia tugs her breeches slightly so that her lower abdomen is exposed. Dorian rubs his hands together with a smirk, a slight bit of fire magic present as he does so.

“I’d hate to shock you with cold hands, my dear,” he teases, and then he channels healing magic once more as he places a hand on her stomach. He hums slightly, pursing his lips as he moves his hand across her skin.

Cullen’s eyes flick between the mage’s thoughtful frown and Cecilia’s sweetly smiling face, realizing that if she’s looking so content she must be feeling all right, not bothered by the magic.

“Oh my dear, there’s – I’m not certain how to tell you this, but -” Dorian’s eyes widen and he looks up at Cecilia and then slowly drags his gaze to Cullen’s.

“What – what is it?” Cecilia asks, her voice shaking slightly, and Cullen steps forward and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Spit it out,” Cullen demands when the other man seems to be struggling to speak.

“There’s – there’s more than one heartbeat, why, there’s one, and another, and – Maferath, is that another? Oh little Earth girl, however will you manage? The Fereldan brute has ruined you -” but then he starts laughing, his eyes shut tight as he hangs his head, overcome with humor.

For a moment Cecilia and Cullen simply stare at him, and then Cecilia gasps and shoves playfully at the Tevinter’s shoulder. “You ass, Dorian! You’re teasing, aren’t you?” she chides.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps we should have asked Solas, the man would have been able to resist the urge to pull our leg for his own amusement, at least.”

“I’m – the look on your faces -” Dorian continues laughing, slapping a hand on Cullen’s shoulder in his mirth.

“Come along, Celia, we will get ourselves to a _proper_ mage,” Cullen says, quirking a challenging eyebrow as he meets the other man’s gaze.

The Tevinter scowls at him. “Fair enough,” he mutters. “Apologies, my dear, I couldn’t resist – you both look so serious, and after all, this is something happy, isn’t it? Unless you’ve changed your mind about going back.”

“Going back?” Cullen asks, frowning as he watches Dorian return his healing hand to Cecilia’s lower stomach.

“I’ve been looking into dear Cecilia’s mysterious circumstances, didn’t she tell you?” Dorian murmurs as he continues to run his hand along her stomach. “One very steady little heartbeat, darling. I still say about – two months? As far as I can tell, as much as I know about this sort of thing. Everything seems healthy and as it should be, although you seem a little parched, and hungry.”

“I keep getting sick,” she sighs. “Is there anything I can do for that? Back home there were medicines, but here – do women just suffer through it?”

“Adan may be able to help put together a potion for you, and your sweetheart here can requisition what’s needed, I’m sure,” Dorian says, finally removing his hands from her stomach. “Rest, water, and food, little Earth girl. That’s the most I can suggest. But everything seems to be progressing well, I didn’t detect anything wrong with your little bundle of joy.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” Cecilia smiles sweetly and looks up at Cullen, her honey eyes twinkling merrily. “Did you hear that, my heart? Everything is fine.”

Cullen rubs the back of his neck, trying to smile for her, but he still isn’t convinced that he can’t do more for her. She’s still so pale, her usually full, rosy lips almost the same color as her creamy skin. “You are certain she is not in any danger?”

“Yes, Commander, besides needing some water and sustenance, she is fine,” Dorian assures him. He picks up the goblet of wine he had set aside and takes a sip. “Women are made for this, after all. She’ll manage.”

Cullen grumbles as he watches Cecilia fasten the laces on her breeches. “We should see Adan and have him make you something, beloved,” he tells her. “He should still be in the clinic -”

“Excellent idea, my soul,” she giggles. “Thank you, Dorian, I really appreciate it.”

“Happy to help, my dear,” he tells her with a wink.

“Happy to scare us both half to death, more like,” Cullen mutters.

“Oh, come now, Commander, the idea of more than one babe wasn’t that horrible, was it?” the other man smirks and winks knowingly at him.

Cullen pointedly ignores his gaze as he takes Celia’s arm in his.

“So I take it this means you’re staying, Earth girl?” Dorian muses as he carefully regards his goblet of wine. There’s something almost hopeful and sheepish in the way he asks it, as if he’s eager for her to stay.

A feeling almost like pride blossoms in his chest as he looks down at Cecilia. In a way, he hasn’t thought at all about how many others she has affected by coming to Thedas, that perhaps he isn’t the only one to whom she is special, the only life she has touched. After all, Josephine relies on her a great deal, and Dorian seems particularly pleasant and attached to her.

“I – yes, I mean, there likely isn’t a way back, and I -” she looks up at Cullen and smiles. “I can’t leave my future husband, especially not carrying his child. Why do you ask, though, Dorian?”

“I was still fascinated by the magic, all things considered,” Dorian shrugs. “I have still been looking into it, I was just – curious, now that you seem to be putting down roots.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” she steps forward and presses a kiss to his cheek. “But I think you’re right, I have more than a few very good reasons to stay in Thedas. After all, as I said, I can’t leave you, can I?”

Dorian smiles and pats her on the arm. “Ha! You are too kind, my dear,” he murmurs, and he takes a moment as he clears his throat. “Well, my goblet is empty, I believe that means our session is up. Until next time.”

And with a wink the mage turns and heads for the stairs.

“We should go see Adan,” Cullen tells her, taking her hand in his and leading her through the tavern. “Hopefully he has what we need, I’m – I’m worried you are wasting away, you have been so ill -”

“Cullen, you worry too much,” she giggles, but she squeezes his hand. “He said everything was all right, my heart. Our child is fine, and I’m just a little hungry, that’s all.”

Cullen sighs and rubs the back of his neck as they make their way across the courtyard, seeking out the clinic. His mind is racing, it has been since she told him, and yet he smiles as he tries to wrap his head around his new reality.

 

_Future husband, carrying his child._

 

They reach the clinic and push inside, finding Adan packing up for the night, the candles burning low. The alchemist looks up, disgruntled, and barely grunts a greeting of, “Commander.”

“Hello, Adan,” Cecilia greets cheerily, smiling sweetly at the scowling man. “We, um, well that is, I was wondering if you have anything for – for morning sickness?”

When a slightly bemused frown greets her words, Cullen clears his throat. “Sickness related to being with child,” he clarifies.

Adan stares at him for a moment and then snorts, shaking his head. “Didn’t I make certain to give you witherstalk and secure it through requisitions, _Commander_?”

Cullen flushes and Cecilia giggles, but Cullen frowns and folds his arms. “Please, just – do you have something to help her? She has been getting ill frequently, and Dorian said she needs food and water -”

“Yes, of course I have something,” the alchemist grumbles, and he quickly sets to work without another word. Within a few minutes he’s passing over a few vials of a slightly murky, puce liquid to Cecilia. “Here you are – take it every morning, come to me if you need more. Anything else?”

His tone is blunt, clipped, and he almost seems to be trying to escort them out of the clinic as he speaks.

“Thank you so much, Adan,” Cecilia says, a bright smile still gracing her beautiful face.

“Yes, yes,” he mutters. “Now get out. It’s late.”

Cullen frowns and opens his mouth, but Cecilia takes him by the hand and leads him out of the clinic, calling one last cheerful goodbye over her shoulder as they pass through the door.

“Excellent, this should help,” she comments, honey eyes twinkling in the moonlight as they seek out his. She's still smiling up at him, looking perfectly at ease.

The sight of her so happy sets his heart racing, and he stops in the middle of the courtyard, tugging her back by her hand into his arms. “You look so happy, beloved,” he tells her, brushing her hair behind her ear as his eyes roams over her face.

“Of course I’m happy, my soul,” she murmurs. “I have you, and our child – I – I have everything I could ever want.”

He can’t find the words to express his joy, his utter contentment, and he leans down to press his lips to hers in a tender kiss, hoping that the gesture can convey everything he lacks the word to tell her.


	40. I Will Be There, Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel inclined to share a face claim, so here - Bron's face claim:
> 
>  

“And did Lady Helene agree to the terms?”

“Let me see,” Cecilia picks up the missive from the pile sitting on the Ambassador’s desk and skims it. “She – it looks as though she wants to amend them -”

“Of course she does,” Josephine sighs. She rubs a graceful hand across her brow and purses her lips. “What is it this time?”

But before Cecilia can read the new demands being made in exchange for trebuchets and help at Adamant Fortress, the door to the office opens. Both women look up at the interruption, and Cecilia’s eyebrows raise when she sees who it is.

The scout, who has to be Jim, she’s seen him around before, is walking hesitantly into the room carrying a wooden tray laden with food.

“Ah, Bernard, isn’t it? What may we do for you?” Josephine greets, frowning as she watches the scout approach the desk.

Cecilia presses her fingers to her lips, trying to keep herself from laughing at the greeting.

 

_Bernard? I suppose it was too much to think that his name really is Jim…_

 

His eyes keep flitting to Cecilia, and he’s walking slowly to balance the steaming mug of tea and the multitude of foods on the tray. “The – the Commander’s orders, Madame Ambassador,” he stutters out. “He bade me bring the Lady Cecilia her luncheon.”

“He – oh,” Cecilia feels her cheeks heat and a smile comes to her lips, soon widening across her whole face until her cheeks nearly ache.

She’s been feeling better, the potion Adan gave her actually helping her to not get sick nearly as much. Every morning she wakes up to find a vial of it sitting beside the bed next to a waterskin, crusty roll, and some cubed up cheese that reminds her of sharp, aged cheddar.

Cullen’s attentive sweetness never ceases to amaze her, and each day she’s finding new reasons to fall more deeply in love with him.

“Yes, well, let’s make room for it,” Josephine says, pulling Cecilia out of her musings about the care Cullen has been showing her. The Ambassador fusses and clears rolls of vellum and parchment out of the way, shifting the candles on the desk to make space for the tray.

The scout – Bernard, she still can’t believe it – steps forward and sets the tray of food down in front of Cecilia in the spot Josephine cleared. Cecilia gives him a smile and a soft word of thanks before she begins to pick over the tray in front of her.

After a moment, though, she looks up, realizing the scout is still standing nearby, shifting on his feet as he watches her. She lowers the piece of fruit she had been lifting to her lips, frowning at him for a moment.

“Is there – is there something else?” she asks.

“A-apologies, my lady,” Bernard says. “But the Commander made me promise to stay until you’d – managed to eat something.” He shifts again on his feet, looking almost embarrassed as he gives her an apologetic shrug.

“He – what? Did he think I wouldn’t eat?” Cecilia asks, raising her eyebrows.

“No, he – he worried that you were still sick,” the scout hurries to assure her. “He wanted me to wait and see if I needed to fetch a healer for you -”

“I – oh,” Cecilia starts giggling, picturing the frown she is certain was on Cullen’s face when he gave the order. “Please, go tell the Commander I am much better today and do not require a healer. But do thank him for the worry.”

“I – but he made me swear -” the man stutters out, his eyes wide at the prospect of disobeying his Commander.

“Don’t worry, Bernard,” she tells him, though the name is odd on her tongue. “I’m feeling much better. Tell him if he has any issues with me sending you back to him, he’s more than welcome to come over here to check on me himself.”

She gives the scout a sweet smile when she finishes speaking, picking the fruit back up and popping it into her mouth. Bernard considers for only a moment more before he gives them both a quick salute that also somehow turns into a bow and he hurries out the door.

As soon as it closes behind him, Cecilia and Josephine burst into giggles, shaking their heads.

“I never expected to see the Commander acting like such a – a mother hen,” Josephine comments, still smiling incredulously as she watches Cecilia blow on the steaming mug of tea. “He is quite changed, since you’ve been here. It is nice to see.”

Cecilia giggles and feels her cheeks flush again. “I’m – I’m happy to see it as well,” she agrees. “He deserves to be happy.”

“Well, he certainly is now,” Josephine points out. “Although he was quite a mess at the last war council, considering you were indisposed. He continually tried to end the meeting earlier so that he could make it back to your side.”

“He’s – he’s been quite worried, yes,” Cecilia sighs and she takes a sip of the tea, noticing something minty and tingly. He must have had the cook put herbs in it to soothe her stomach. “I’m fine, though, really. This is all normal.”

“You said Dorian did not detect anything wrong, yes?” Josephine asks, and there’s a note of apprehension in her tone as she frowns at her friend.

“He said everything was going very well,” Cecilia assures her with a sweet smile. “And the potions Adan made me have helped a great deal the last few days. Did I tell you what Dorian did, though? He made us think there was more than one baby, just to tease us.”

“Maker, that man,” Josephine laughs, picking up her quill once more. “Can you imagine -”

The door opens once more and another scout walks in, although this one is scowling, and Cecilia frowns, uncertain if she recognizes her. Then again the Inquisition is growing daily, more and more people from Thedas joining their cause, and seeing new faces isn't so surprising.

“Yes?” Josephine greets the scout, and Cecilia recognizes the way she’s trying to bite back an exasperated sigh. There’s always more work, it seems, always more missives.

“Message for you, Lady Montilyet,” the scout says, and she stops in front of the desk to hold out a folded piece of parchment.

Josephine takes the missive with a small quirk of her eyebrow, and she carefully unfolds it. A sharp intake of breath from the Ambassador makes Cecilia’s heart race and she sets the mug of tea down as she glances to her side to see what it is.

There’s only a symbol in the center of the parchment, as if it was stamped there, and Josephine is staring at it as if transfixed. After a moment she throws it on the desk and looks up at the scout, her eyes wide.

“Cecilia – run,” Josephine breathes.

“What -” Cecilia looks between the Ambassador and the scout, her heart racing.

“Run -” Josephine repeats as she stands, but the scout shakes her head.

“I’m not going to hurt her, unless you do something stupid,” the scout says, and she draws a long dagger from her belt.

 

_The House of Repose._

 

The realization crashes over Cecilia as she tries to take in the way the scout is fingering the tip of her weapon. Terror grips her heart, her hands shaking as she pushes herself to her feet as well.

“Please, we’re not -” Cecilia begins, but Josephine grabs her arm and pulls her behind her, trying her best to shield her.

“You do not have to do this, I am working on a plan, the DuParaquets will be -” Josephine tries to protest, but the assassin shakes her head and shushes the Ambassador.

“Time is up,” she says simply with a casual shrug. “We gave you a warning, but the contract must be fulfilled -”

“No!” Cecilia cries loudly, and the assassin scowls at her.

“Not another word or I’ll be forced to take care of you as well -” she warns Cecilia, tightening her grip on the dagger as she points it at them.

But something in Cecilia snaps, finding a bravery she normally wouldn’t have been able to muster, when one simple thought crosses her mind.

 

_I’m carrying his child._

 

“Help!” she screams at the top of her lungs, tightening her hands on Josephine’s arms and pulling her a few steps away from the desk with her. “Someone help us!”

“Why you little -” the assassin says, and she moves quickly, circling the desk to reach them.

But Josephine and Cecilia scurry around the desk the opposite way, and again Cecilia lets out a scream as Josephine tries to get them both away from the assassin.

The door crashes open suddenly and Cecilia looks up to see who is answering her cry for help.

The Inquisitor takes barely a moment to assess the scene before he runs forward, crossing the room in only a few long strides to tackle the assassin. They tumble to the floor, a mess of legs and arms as they struggle with one another. Grunts and a few gasps of pain accompany the brawl, and Josephine again grasps Cecilia to hold her behind her, backing her into the wall as they watch Bron fighting with the would be assassin.

After several moments, the pair stills after one last surprised cry from the assassin as she is knocked unconscious, and Bron pushes himself to his knees, breathing heavily. He winces and presses a hand to his ribs, the silk uniform shirt he wears torn as dark red seeps between his fingers.

“In-Inquisitor!” Josephine gasps, and she hurries forward. “You are injured – quick, we must -”

“I’m fine, really, Jo-Josephine,” he tries to assure her with a grimace. “We’ll have her taken to the dungeons, no doubt Sister Nightingale will want to interrogate her when she wakes –”

“Yes, yes, but first your injuries,” Josephine insists firmly, and she reaches with a hand to cup his cheek. “You saved us – you saved me.”

There’s a tender tone in her voice, and something shifts in the Inquisitor’s face. He’s no longer trying to look around the room and see if there are any more threats, instead he stares down at her almost as if he’s seeing her for the first time.

“I – of course I did, Josephine,” Bron tells her, his voice lowering with the words. “I’m only glad you’re all right -”

“We’re lucky you were nearby to hear Cecilia’s cries,” Josephine tells him, glancing over at where Cecilia is still standing by the wall. She frowns when she catches sight of Cecilia, and releases Bron to hurry over. “Are you all right?”

“I’m – just a bit faint,” Cecilia tells her. “Nerves, I – that was all so – I think I need to sit down -”

Josephine steadies her by gripping one of her arms and leads her to one of the chairs by the fire. Cecilia sits, one hand pressed over her lower belly, her heart racing as she tries to take deep breaths. An assassin, chasing her with a dagger, intending to kill her – and her friend. And her unborn child.

Her mind is reeling, her stomach churning, and she rubs trembling fingers along her forehead.

“We should fetch Leliana, and a healer, and – someone should send for the Commander,” Josephine is saying, and Bron mutters soft words of assent. There’s a bustle near her, but when she glances to see what is happening her vision blurs slightly and she feels faint again.

“You there – fetch Sister Nightingale, and the Commander,” Bron’s deep voice commands someone.

Cecilia keeps her eyes closed though, simply trying to steady herself. She listens as someone runs out of the room, and Josephine and Bron continue moving about, murmuring to one another as they do so. But it’s like she blacks out, unable to focus on anything, her mind blank as the adrenaline continues to course through her.

“Where is she?”

The deep voice reverberates off the walls, a bark of a command that makes Cecilia jump and finally look up. Cullen charges into the office, looking as if he ran from his tower, and his amber gaze moves quickly to take in the scene that greets him in the room.

As soon as he sees Cecilia sitting by the fire he races forward, throwing himself to his knees before her. Taking her hands into one of his, he brushes her long hair behind her ear as he searches her face. “Beloved, are you all right?” he asks, his voice a hoarse whisper, sounding torn between anger and concern.

“I’m – I’m fine, mi alma,” she murmurs. “We’re both all right, the Inquisitor – he was able to stop her -”

His grip tightens on her hand and he cups her cheek with his hand, pulling her face closer to his. He leans his forehead to hers, his breathing heavy and his eyes closed. “Maker, I thought – are you certain you’re all right? You look pale -”

“Just nerves, it was – it was terrifying, to be completely honest,” she lets out a choked giggle, feeling tears spring to her eyes. “I just thought about – it’s nothing, it’s – we’re fine now. Really, mon cœur.”

Cullen presses a fierce kiss to her forehead, as if assuring himself that she’s there, and all right. After a long moment he finally pulls away, still stroking her hair, and he manages a small smile before he pushes himself to his feet.

“How did she get into Skyhold?” he demands, his voice sharp, and Cecilia almost flinches when she realizes how angry he sounds.

“I intend to find out, Commander,” the lilting voice of Leliana answers, but the tone of her voice is icier than normal.

What they all begin to argue about Cecilia isn’t entirely certain of, because again her mind slips and she becomes unfocused. The rumble of voices, the angry words all sound like they’re coming to her across an ocean or through thick glass, distorted and muffled.

It had happened so quickly, but her mind keeps drawing the moments out as if the assassin had held them longer than a minute or two. Now that she’s no longer in the situation, she’s fixating on the risk she took to alert someone to the danger. Her screams could have gotten them both killed –

 

_Instead they saved us._

 

She continues to try to remind herself of that, tries to focus on the fact that she’s still alive.

 

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

 

“Celia?” The deep voice pulls her out of her daze, and she glances up to see Cullen holding his hand out to her. “Let’s get you to bed, you need rest – you’re still so pale.”

She jerks her head in a nod a few times as she takes his hand, allowing him to help her to her feet and begin to lead her out of the office. As they pass her, Josephine stops them and wraps her arms around Cecilia’s neck.

“Thank you,” she murmurs in her ear. “Get some rest – we can continue our work another time.”

“Of course, Josie – th-thank you,” she stutters out, squeezing the other woman before they release one another and Cullen continues to lead her out of the office.

They wind their way through the keep and the visiting nobles, Cullen’s grip on her hand tightening as he walks beside her. Neither of them says a word, but they both squeeze one another’s fingers as they make their way to the office. Once inside Cullen closes the doors before he tugs her hand and leads her straight to the ladder.

Silently encouraging her up, he follows closely behind her until they both reach the loft. In one swift movement he pulls her into his arms, lifting her and carrying her to the bed. He kneels with one knee on the mattress and pulls her with him, leaning against the headboard as he cradles her in his arms. Still without saying a word, he holds her and presses kisses to her forehead and hair. The emotions that have been vying for her attention finally take over, and tears begin to run down her cheeks.

Cullen simply nestles her against him, rocking slightly as he nearly crushes her into his armor, his lips resting on the top of her head. “Celia, Maker – if I lost you – and our babe – are you certain you’re all right?”

“I’m – I was terrified,” she breathes. “But I’m fine – I’m still here, and our baby is fine, mi alma. I’m just – I’m just trying to calm down. That’s all.”

His arms tighten around her. “I love you. I love you more than I could ever put into words, beloved,” he murmurs. “Thank the Maker you cried out, and the Inquisitor was near enough to hear.”

“I know,” she tries to swallow around the emotion choking her throat. “I know, mi alma. I love you too, I – I’m so – I’m so happy to be alive.”

An odd, teary giggle escapes her lips and she shakes her head against his armored chest. He holds her until the tears stop flowing, whispering reassuring words of love. When she finally stops she pulls away, glancing up to try to give him a smile. The panic has worn off, the shock and daze fading finally, her mind clearing once more.

“Beloved,” he murmurs as he wipes her cheeks and brushes her hair off her face. “ _My_ soul, _my_ heart – I – I have something I was going to give to you another time, but I – I cannot wait. Not now.”

Cullen shifts and digs in the pocket of his mantle, and after a moment withdraws a parchment envelope. He opens it and unfolds the letter within, and a small silverite ring falls out into his outstretched palm.

“It – it was my mother’s,” he tells her as he holds it out to her. “But I – it is yours, now. I know that the one your former betrothed gave you was jeweled -”

“Cullen, it’s – it’s perfect,” she interrupts, shaking her head adamantly and letting him slide the thin band onto her finger. “I – I don’t know what to say, I -”

“You don’t need to say anything, Celia,” he tells her. “I love you, and I want to spend my life with you. I – I was going to – Maker I was going to prepare a speech. I know I asked you already, but I thought giving you this ring makes it – more official. And right now I – I just want to see it on your finger, after everything, just to reassure myself. You are here, and you are mine.”

“Oh mon cœur, I – of course,” she giggles lightly and leans forward, pressing her lips to his. “I love it, and I love you. More than words.”

He smiles at the way she echoes his words, and tightens his hold on her as if scared she’ll disappear if he loosens his grip at all.


	41. Art Break!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains no story, but LOOK at this art!

_I commissioned the absolutely amazing[Kawereen](http://kawereen.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr to do a sketch of Cullen and Cecilia, and couldn't help but just share it as its own chapter because just - just look at them! She did an absolutely amazing job, and I couldn't be happier. Just like these two - they look so happy!_

_And now that I've made sure you've all seen this art - let me just say thank you for reading! It means so much to me that you're all tagging along on this completely self-indulgent fic of mine. I love each and every one of you._

_Update soon!_

_xx,_

_Lara_


	42. A Warning and A Request

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started this fic, I hadn't quite gotten into my groove writing Rylen, as I was still feeling out his muse. Since then, he's flourished as a character (if not obvious from the numerous fics I've written with him in them, whoops) and the portrayal here is just slightly out of character. At some point I may go back and fix some of his previous dialogue so that it's more in character for how I write and see him now, but in the meantime I just wanted to say that moving forward he's going to be much more like the Rylen I usually write. Hopefully that isn't jarring for anyone, I just can't continue to write him the way I'd started him here. Don't worry, though, that's a good thing. I hope.
> 
> This may include a change in the direction his subplot was going, since I have a rule when it comes to Rylen and his LI...Some of you may recognize a slightly familiar face (with a tweaked background) entering the picture soon. *wink wink*
> 
> Also I want to say that a lot of the comments and speculations made on the last chapter were hard to respond to without giving too many spoilers - a lot of them were related to important things coming up soon, including in this chapter. So I hope you enjoy the answers to some of your questions!
> 
> As always thank you so much for reading! It means so much to me <3
> 
> xx,  
> Lara

“Come in.”

The rapping on the office door stops and he glances to see who it is, but he doesn’t move from where he’s standing at the base of the ladder to ensure that Cecilia makes it down all right.

“Cullen, I’m fine,” she tells him, but he still wraps his hands around her waist to swing her down from the last few rungs.

“Sorry to interrupt, Commander,” Rylen greets, looking hesitant to walk further into the office.

“Not a problem, Captain,” Cullen tells him. “What can I do for you?”

Rylen closes the door behind him, clasping his hands behind his back in the same formal way he always does when delivering reports. “Hawke and the Warden Alistair have arrived, there will be a War Council shortly,” his Second tells him.

“Oh! I should go meet up with Josie,” Celia says beside him, and she places a hand on his forearm. “See you there, my heart.”

He leans down to oblige her, letting her plant a soft kiss to his cheek. Ignoring the way the other man clears his throat and looks away politely, he grants her a smile and nods at her. With a sweet smile and a bow of her head to Rylen she hurries out the door to the keep.

“What news do they bring?” he asks as he crosses the space to his desk, picking up the reports and plans he needs.

“Nothing good,” Rylen answers and walks to wait before his desk. “Seems the Wardens have gone batty, Hawke confirmed their presence at the fortress. It doesn’t look good, Commander.”

Cullen nods, his cheeks clenching as he gathers what he needs and thinks. Too many thoughts though, too many emotions overcome him as he tries to prepare himself for the war council. He’s still thinking over the attempt on the Ambassador, how close Cecilia had been to danger a few days before. And now, assaulting the Grey Wardens, the confirmation of blood magic, the fact that he’ll be leading their forces into battle himself…

Not to mention having to face – _him_.

He shakes his head as he gestures to the door for his Captain to accompany him, knowing he should attend the council as well. His Second falls into step beside him, his usual easy swagger matching pace with Cullen’s as they cross the bridge to the Keep.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” Rylen comments casually. “I’m happy for you, mate.”

A small smirk tugs up the corner of Cullen’s mouth as he glances at his friend beside him. “Thank you, Rylen,” he acknowledges with a nod. “We are very happy, I – I feel -” but he trails off, unable to vocalize how he feels aloud. Instead he clears his throat and falls silent.

“Aye, I can tell,” the other man claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve been different since she got here, it’s been quite the relief for the men.”

Cullen glares at his Second, but at the other man’s wide grin he bursts into laughter and shakes his head. “They need someone to be tough on them.”

“Tough, aye – not a blasted taskmaster, though,” Rylen teases. “Ah, I’m glad she’s here. You need someone looking after you.”

Cullen gives a noncommittal grunt as they enter the keep, chafing slightly at the other man’s words, still feeling unworthy of the care she gives him. But he smiles when he thinks about how she looks at him, and his irritation dissipates. “How about you? Any – luck – on that front?” he asks, resisting the urge to state his suspicions about the Seeker.

“Ah – no, unfortunately,” Rylen answers slowly. “Well, I – I thought maybe – no, it’s for the best.”

A frown crosses the other man’s scarred and tattooed face, and Cullen mirrors it. “Turned you down?”

Rylen shrugs. “Aye, but it’s not the end of the world,” he brushes off the question, waving a hand dismissively. “Besides, I -”

“Commander Curly!” A deep voice barks out across the main hall, and Cullen rolls his eyes at the sound. Hawke is standing near the door to the Ambassador’s office, his usual wicked smile wide across his face. “How kind of you to join us.”

“Champion,” Cullen greets with a grimace. “I understand you have news for us?”

“Well, yes, I do,” Hawke folds his arms and stares at the pair before him for a moment. “Though not as big as the news I just heard -”

“Is this really the moment?” Cullen interrupts.

“I just wanted to congratulate you,” Hawke shrugs and holds out a hand. “You finally convinced someone to like you. And seems you finally lost your -”

“We have a council to get to,” Cullen grits out, pushing past the man and ignoring his outstretched hand as he walks into the Ambassador’s office.

Cecilia is standing beside Josephine near the desk, and when she hears his footsteps she turns, a slightly worried look crossing her face. She excuses herself from the Ambassador’s side and hurries to greet him.

“I’m so sorry, Cullen, Varric had told him, and I got so flustered after meeting -” she begins, but he shakes his head and wraps an arm around her impulsively to pull her in for a kiss.

Something about her presence soothes him, steadying him and letting him set aside the trepidations he’s feeling, the concerns. The nerves about the fact of – _him_.

“It is all right, beloved,” he assures her when he pulls away from her soft lips. “I do not care who knows. If I did I would not have asked you to marry me.”

She giggles and nods as he releases her, and for a moment she seems lost before she walks back to the Ambassador’s side.

Cullen turns and continues through to the war room, Rylen still walking casually beside him. When he catches his Second’s eye he notices the knowing smirk on the man’s face, and he shakes his head before he begins to chuckle.

“Aye, you really don’t care who knows,” the man mutters, and they laugh together as they enter the war room.

The laughter dies in his throat when he sees the Inquisitor standing with his hands behind his back, facing away from the door to look over the maps, and beside him –

“Ah! Cullen! Maker but it’s – it’s good to see you,” the familiar voice calls out, and the tall, armored man beside Bron turns and takes a few steps to meet Cullen and Rylen at the door. He’s holding out his hand, smiling genuinely, but for a moment Cullen’s mind fogs, and a different image swims in his vision.

_A purple, electric cage, figures on the other side. But were they real, or just another trick? And her, here –_

_It had to be a trick, the demon had simply taken her form again, trying to get him to give in._

_Just as before, when it had -_

_“No, no – leave me -”_

_“Maker’s breath, the – the poor soul’s been tortured,” a deep voice said. “How long has he been in there?”_

_A young face, contorted into a frown, staring down at him through the cage with warm brown eyes filled with horror._

_“I – Cullen? Is that you?” a soft voice said, but it sounded just like the demon, it had to be, there to tempt him again. “Cullen?”_

“Cullen?”

“You all right, mate?”

Cullen blinks, looking around, surrounded by several concerned faces. Rylen is gripping his shoulder with one of his large hands, and Alistair is standing on his other side, frowning at him with those same warm brown eyes. But there are more lines in his face, a harder look in his features after all these years.

The door opens behind them all, and when he glances over his shoulder he sees Cecilia striding in behind Josephine. She stops when she takes in the scene before her, her eyes wandering over Cullen before they flit to Alistair. Without a second thought she takes a few quick steps until she’s beside him, peering up into his face.

“Are you all right?” she asks softly.

“I – I am fine, apologies, everyone,” he rushes to assure them all, shaking off Rylen’s grip on his shoulder. “Just – woozy. Bad headache.”

“Should I get you some -” Celia begins, but he shakes his head.

“No, beloved, I am fine,” he interrupts. He turns to face Alistair and sets his jaw as he holds out his hand. “Alistair, it is – good to see you again.”

“Wish it was under better circumstances,” the other man agrees as he grips Cullen’s hand in a firm handshake, still wearing a worried frown as he looks over the Commander’s face. But then an almost boyish grin comes to his lips and he lets out a few barks of laughter. “The whole world on the brink of collapse again though, seems only right we’d run into one another now.”

Cullen forces a smile and nods, but finds himself unable to comment. He’s still rattled, trying to shake off the memories. He’s not there, he’s no longer trapped in that cage, he got out of it over ten years ago.

He releases the other man's grip and shakes out his hand. Moving to stand where he normally does at the war table, he sets his reports down and begins a low conversation with Rylen about the markers on the map. The state of things isn’t as bad as they could be, but looking over the map and reports he begins to wonder if they can accomplish what they intend.

“Well, now that we are all present, shall we begin?” the smooth voice of the Ambassador cuts across the murmured voices of the different groups.

“Of course, Jos – Ambassador,” the Inquisitor says eagerly, smiling at the woman, his eyes wide and fixed on her attentively. “What is the status of our requests to the nobles of the area?”

“They have agreed to provide the siege equipment we need,” she answers, and glances at Cullen. “We will have the necessary means to breach the Fortress, Commander.”

“Excellent,” he agrees, nodding as he looks over the map. “Alistair, what can you tell us about your brethren and their plans?”

The meeting goes on for hours as Alistair and Hawke relay all they know, as the war council discusses all plans and how to organize the caravan to cross Orlais. Yet the whole time Cullen chafes, and when he looks at Celia to steady himself he frowns, concerned when he sees that she almost looks distraught.

It distracts him when she continues to chew her bottom lip, looking wide-eyed between Hawke, Alistair, and Bron instead of taking her usual notes. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

“And what of – what of the Hero?” Leliana asks softly during the planning, turning to Alistair with an uncharacteristic look of worry on her face.

“She is not there,” Alistair answers just as softly, folding his arms. He glances furtively at Cullen and then clears his throat and returns his gaze to the map. “That is all I am certain of.”

“I see,” Leliana murmurs, staring absently at the map as well, deep in thought.

“Can she be contacted?” Bron asks, seemingly unaware of the sudden tension in the room.

“Believe me, I’ve tried,” Alistair assures the young Inquisitor. “But no, I – I do not think we will have her assistance in this matter. Even if – even if we could reach her, I am uncertain she could meet us there in time. We cannot delay.”

Bron frowns and looks as if he is about to continue asking questions, but Cullen clears his throat. “I believe we have our plans established,” he tells the council. “We have preparations to make, we should get to them.”

Murmurs of assent greet his pronouncement, and slowly everyone begins to turn to file out of the room. Cullen turns to Cecilia, intending to escort her back to the tower, but she’s frowning and hurries around the table.

“W-Warden Theirin -” she calls after Alistair, and the other man flinches and turns to her with a smile on his face.

“Please, that makes me sound like some uptight, grizzled old man,” he tells her. “Call me Alistair, if you will.”

“I – as you wish, Al-Alistair,” she says as she stops before him. “I was wondering, can you – can you tell me more about the Hero of Ferelden? I – I’m not from around here, but I’ve heard some stories. I was curious if you – if you wouldn’t mind telling me about – her?”

“Not from around here?” he raises an eyebrow, but Celia merely shrugs and offers a timid smile. “Well what would you like to know? There’s a lot to tell about the great Warden-Commander Surana.”

“Surana?” she repeats, and her gaze flicks to where Cullen is standing frozen in place before she returns it to Alistair.

“Well, technically it should be Theirin, but – she insisted on still being called Surana,” Alistair chuckles. “Said it would be too confusing to have two Theirins in the ranks of the Wardens. And what can I say, whatever sweet Aislinn wants she gets. I just can’t refuse her – though not like I would even dream of trying.”

“So you’re – you’re married? To the Hero of Ferelden?” she asks.

“Yes, we married – oh, almost nine years ago, now,” Alistair smiles as he says it, but then he clears his throat and glances back at Cullen. “I understand you are to be married as well, soon? I overheard Varric mentioning something to Hawke.”

“Yes, we are,” Cecilia answers him, glancing to Cullen and offering him a reassuring smile.

“Congratulations,” Alistair offers her a small bow and then glances back at Cullen as well. “Nice to – nice to know you’ve found some happiness, after – well. I’m happy for you.”

Cullen nods, unable to speak, and Cecilia looks between them both, her brows quirked into a frown. “The – the Hero, Surana – you don’t know where she is?”

“No,” Alistair replies, and there’s a sadness in his tone that he can’t seem to hide, though he tries. He forces a grin and looks between them both. “When we are done with this, though, I’ll be reunited with her. No worries on that front.”

“R-right,” Cecilia agrees hesitantly, but her honey eyes are still wide as she stares up at Alistair. “Thank you, that’s – I’m sorry to bother you.”

Alistair simply chuckles again and shakes his head. “It is no bother. I’m always more than happy to speak of my love. But perhaps I should – I should go make my preparations. Excuse me, miss -?”

“Cecilia,” she answers. “It’s a pleasure to have met you, I – I hope to see you – well, see you around.”

Alistair inclines his head in a bow to her before glancing at Cullen and giving him a wide smile. He turns and exits the war room, leaving Cullen and Cecilia alone. Silence consumes them for a moment, and then she turns to face him.

“Are you all right?” she asks, closing the distance between them.

“I – I am fine,” he tries to assure her, but his voice cracks. He blinks and looks away from her, trying to steady himself.

“She – you knew her, didn’t you?” she says softly, and he simply gives a jerky nod. “I’m sorry, Cullen. If – if you need to talk, I’m – I’m here. You know that, don’t you, my soul?”

As always the words act as a balm to his heart and he nods again, looking down to see her standing before him, love reflecting back at him in her eyes. “Thank you, Celia. I will be fine.”

“I love you,” she tells him, and she stands on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “I – I have something to do, but – I will meet you back in the loft to help you prepare?”

He frowns, his eyes wandering over her face. “What do you need to do?”

“I – I have someone I need to speak with,” she answers, but she doesn’t elaborate. Instead she presses another kiss to his cheek and turns to hurry out of the room.

For a moment he simply stares after her, but his curiosity gets the better of him and he follows her swiftly out of the room. When he enters the main hall he sees her standing with Hawke and Varric, looking timid as she speaks with the Champion. His arms are crossed, one eyebrow raised while he listens to her.

Cullen marches forward, intending to find out what she’s saying.

“I just – was curious, I promise I don’t have any other motives,” he hears her say as he approaches.

“Hawke, you don’t have to worry about her,” Varric assures his friend. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s just heard some of the stories from me, probably suffering a little bit of hero worship.”

“And your dearest love hasn’t told you all of this?” Hawke questions, shifting slightly on his feet when he sees Cullen walk up behind his betrothed.

Cecilia turns to look up at him, almost looking sheepish, but still – the look in her eyes. Something is wrong, he can tell. He recalls the skittish way she had acted around the fall of Haven, and he's beginning to worry.

“Celia, what is going on?” he asks.

“I – I was just asking the Champion about – about his friends,” she explains, but she looks away from him.

Hawke shrugs. “They’ve all gone their separate ways, that is, except – well, but I wouldn’t dream of bringing him with me to a place full of so many Templars and Chantry types. Too much temptation for mischief.”

“Templars and – do you mean Anders?” Cecilia asks, raising her eyebrows as she stares at Hawke.

“Yes,” Hawke answers with a frown. “But he’s somewhere safe, probably disappointed he’s going to miss out on all the fun. Isn’t that right, Curly?”

Cullen merely grunts dismissively, staring at Cecilia and wondering why she’s avoiding his gaze.

“So – so Anders is – I’m sorry, I just – it’s as Varric said, I heard the stories and wanted to hear more,” she stutters over her words, fidgeting with the wooden board she’s holding. “I didn’t mean to bother you, Champion.”

“I’d be willing to swap stories,” Hawke suggests with a smirk. “I’ll tell you about how I wooed a dashing former Grey Warden if you tell me your secret to putting up with Curly here.”

“I – I have work to do, maybe another time. Excuse me,” Cecilia answers, and she bows her head to Hawke and Varric and scurries away.

Cullen frowns, his arms folded, and he glances at the pair in front of him before he takes long strides to catch up with her. “Celia, tell me what is wrong.”

“I – in your office,” she tells him, looking around them before she continues on her way.

He walks quickly behind her, his heart racing as he wonders over her unusual behavior. When they reach his office she hurries through the portal, but after closing the door behind them she locks it, then walks to the other two and does the same.

“Cecilia – what in Andraste’s name is -”

“Cullen, I have to – I have to tell you something, I – I can’t,” she looks up at him, her brows furrowed, tears welling in her eyes. “Please listen, I – I need you to believe me -”

He frowns and folds his arms, leaning back against his desk as he regards her. “Of course, beloved,” he says slowly. “You know you can tell me anything. I will always listen.”

“I – I know what happens at Adamant,” she whispers, clenching her eyes shut. “And I – I need to tell someone. I have to – maybe I can – maybe something can be done, I just don’t know how, or what, or -”

“Slow down,” he pushes himself off his desk and closes the distance between them, taking her shoulders in his hands. She’s rambling, close to tears, and he presses a reassuring kiss to her forehead. Her reaction, though, is setting his heart racing, his insides twisting.

 

_Maker, what happens that has her acting like this?_

“Take a deep breath, beloved, and try to find the words to tell me,” he encourages her softly.

She does as he commands, taking a deep breath and then another before she chews her bottom lip for a moment. “The – the dragon – it’s – it’s complicated,” she sighs, running her delicate fingers across her brow. “The Inquisitor and his companions are going to – to fall into a rift, that’s the easiest way to explain it. With Alistair and Hawke, and – and it needs to happen, I mean – the Inquisitor learns about – about the Anchor. But, um -”

“Wait, they fall into a _rift_?” Cullen interrupts, his fingers tightening slightly where they’re holding her.

“Yes,” she nods, “into the Fade. But it needs to happen. There’s a – a demon, though, and someone stays behind, but – Cullen, you need to tell them. They need to figure something else out, I – I don’t want someone to stay behind and get trapped -”

“Who – who stays behind?” Cullen asks, trying to wrap his mind around what she’s telling him.

“Ei-either Hawke or Alistair,” she whispers. Tears slide down her cheeks, and he brushes them aside with his thumbs. “Please, if you can – tell them, try to get them to – to come up with something else. I – I don’t want either of them to die, not if we can stop it.”

“I – I will need to know more, beloved, but – I promise, I will do what I can,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “But tell me – do we succeed?”

“I – yes,” she says. “That is, unless me telling you ruins – I just – Cullen, I hope I didn’t just ruin everything. I couldn’t keep quiet, I – Alistair is married, and Hawke has Anders, I – and they’re both – I know so much about them. Please. Please, my heart.”

He cups the back of her head and holds her to him, resting his lips against her soft hair. “I promise,” he repeats.

His mind races, thinking over everything she said. They succeed, as far as she knows. But what if things don’t go that way, what if something goes wrong, what if –

 

_What if I do not make it back?_

 

“Beloved,” he begins slowly. “I leave in two days, I – if I do not make it back -”

“No, don’t say that!” she cries, burying her face against him. “You do, you do. You have to.”

“I was only going to say, if I do not – I would like for you to go to South Reach, Josephine can help get you there, and my family will take care of you. At least, they will once they know who you are – Mrs. Rutherford.”

“But I’m not, not yet – don’t talk like that, you’re making me even more anxious than I already am,” she shakes her head against him, not raising her gaze to his.

“Celia, listen to me,” he insists, placing a hand beneath her chin to raise her gaze to his. “I am going into battle, and I am certain that I – that we – will succeed. But it would not do for me to leave you here without – making certain you and our child will be taken care of.”

“Cullen -”

“Beloved, we have tomorrow,” he interrupts. “Marry me tomorrow, let me do right by you both.”

“What?” she raises her gaze to his, her eyes wide. “T-tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he nods, holding her cheeks in his hands. “There is no point delaying, and it is my duty to you before I go into battle.”

For several long moments she simply stares up at him, and then a wide smile breaks across her face, her eyes lighting up with pure joy.

“Y-yes, Cullen,” she agrees, nodding. “Tomorrow. I – god, I need a dress, I need – we need someone to marry us, I need someone to walk me down the aisle and -”

“We have time,” he assures her, chuckling softly at the way she’s smiling but listing everything off, rambling in her excitement.

“I – you really mean it?” she cuts off in her list and stares up at him, sudden doubt crossing her golden eyes.

“Of course,” he tells her. “I love you, and I cannot wait. Unless you – you have doubts?”

“None at all,” she answers in a heartbeat. “I love you, Cullen. Now and forever.”


	43. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks head in*
> 
> Hello!
> 
> My sincerest apologies for the delay in updates. A large part of it was that my Cullen muse disappeared for a while, and so I let myself indulge in my Rylen muse in the meantime. Writing my fic After Rain has oddly been helping me get my Cullen muse back - since it's tied so closely to my canon, original Cullen as I wrote him. I will admit the comments asking when this fic would be updated did help me push myself to revisit it. I reread recently and started to get the itch to write these two lovebirds, because I love them so much.
> 
> The muse is still hit or miss, unfortunately, so I cannot guarantee that updates will be quicker. However I do know that rethinking how much I was trying to fit into the next update did help break the block I was suffering, and so they may start to flow a bit more now that I've taken some of the pressure off myself. I at least have ideas for the next few chapters, now :-D
> 
> Well, you didn't come here to listen to me ramble. And so - have an update. I appreciate the patience of you all and the absolutely astounding, somewhat baffling love you have for this fic. Thank you for reading, and just know that I am so grateful for each and every one of you. I cannot express in words how much your interest in this totally self-indulgent work means to me.
> 
> xx,  
> Lara

_“Celia – Celia, kiddo, wake up.”_

_“Mon trésor, wake up, you’re here.”_

_The voices almost echo, as if coming to her across a cavern, or across a vast amount of time. She can feel her brows furrow into a frown as she tries to make sense of how these voices could be greeting her._

_And here - where’s here?_

_She opens her eyes after a moment, and all that greets her is a green sky, black tendrils of smoke coiling up into monstrous and odd clouds above her. All around her is rocky ground, jutting out and creating crags in places she wouldn’t expect._

_Everything looks familiar, and yet all she recognizes is that it can't possibly be._

_“Kiddo, it’s all right - you’re here,” a deep voice says again, and she can tell it’s coming from her right. As it greets her it almost cracks with heavy emotion, and she rolls her head to look toward it._

_Her breath catches in her throat, eyes widening as she stares up at the man who can’t possibly be crouching beside her._

_But he is._

_“D-Dad?” she gasps, and her words catch in her throat as she tries to form the word._

_A kind smile is on his face, but after a moment she realizes - if he’s here, then she must be -_

_“I - I died, didn’t I?” she asks him, and her heart almost sinks as she peers up at him from where she’s lying. That’s the only explanation, the only thing she can think for how and why he’s there, smiling down at her._

_“No, mon trésor, you’re not dead,” a softer, accented voice chimes in._

_Quickly she turns her head to look behind her, heart racing as she realizes -_

_“Maman?” she greets the woman, tears coming to her eyes as she looks up into the face she hasn’t seen in years. “I’m - if I’m not dead, where am I? Am I - am I in a coma? Am I dying?”_

_It’s all so real, but it can’t be. Just a lucid, vivid dream - something had happened, an - an accident. Maybe she’s simply knocked out, perhaps she’s in some sort of limbo - maybe she’s crossing over._

_The thought does little to reassure her._

_“No, Cecilia, you’re not dying,” her mother tells her, brushing long, reddish brown hair over her shoulder. She’s in a long, flowing white dress. The kind of relaxing, casual dress she used to wear around the house. But it looks familiar, and a thought comes to her suddenly._

_“It - it was you,” Cecilia says, and she pushes herself up so that she can look around. She remembers now - someone had run in front of her car. Someone with long, auburn hair in a flowing white dress. She looks away from her mother, trying to figure out how either of them can be here, how she can be here._

 

_Not possible._

 

_“How? And where - holy shit.” Cecilia stares around, her jaw dropping as she tries to make sense of the swirling green and jagged rocks surrounding her - the landscape so familiar and yet so surreal. “Is this - the Fade?”_

_The question slips from her lips before she can help it, unable to resist trying to figure out if she really is where she thinks she is - as impossible as it seems. It’s a fiction, it isn’t real - it can’t be real. Magic, other worlds - they don’t exist._

_Or do they?_

_“What the - I - must be in a coma, I hit my head, I - something,” she mutters, still staring around feeling disconnected from everything around her. “This makes no sense.”_

_“Kiddo, we don’t have a lot of time,” her father says, and he pushes off his knees and reaches out a hand to pull her to her feet. “You’ve got a choice to make and not a lot of time to make it in.”_

 

_A choice? What choice?_

 

_“Come along, Cecilia,” her mother tells her with a sweet voice. She gestures for Cecilia to follow her, the corners of her eyes wrinkling slightly just as they used to when she smiled. “This way.”_

_“Where are we going?” Cecilia asks, taking her mother’s outstretched hand._

_“The way forward,” her mother answers with a knowing smile._

_“That is, if you want it to be,” her father adds. “It’s all up to you - it’s either a portal, or a way home.”_

_“I don’t - I don’t understand,” Cecilia tells them, frowning as she continues letting her mother lead her by the hand along the winding paths._

_“We heard you,” her mother tells her. “A wish - a desire to be anywhere but where you were. A chance to get away, to start over -”_

_“You - heard me?” Cecilia repeats, staring at the way her mother’s auburn hair is catching the green light above them. “How is that even - possible? I mean where we are - this shouldn’t exist, right?”_

_“And yet, here we are,” her father says. “Did you really think we left you all alone?”_

_“But you - you d-died,” Cecilia insists, feeling tears prick her eyes as she looks between her parents._

_“The two aren’t impossible, or mutually exclusive,” her mother says with a shrug. “Come, we’re almost there.”_

_“You still haven’t told me where,” Cecilia points out, frowning at her surroundings._

 

_I must have hit my head._

_That has to be it._

_This is - too bizarre to be real._

 

_She lifts a hand to her head, but finds no wound, no stinging. The accident as she remembers it should have left some sort of wound, especially if she’s hallucinating or dreaming this vividly._

_“Almost there,” her mother informs her, pulling her out of her musings._

_“Please tell me what’s going on - almost where?” Cecilia prompts, squeezing her mother’s thin fingers as she implores her._

_“Almost to your choice,” her father answers. “A chance at a new beginning - or a return to the world you know and all of your problems there.”_

_“Although, we cannot guarantee either option,” her mother adds thoughtfully. “Que será será, as it were.”_

_“A - a new beginning?” Cecilia repeats. She frowns as her mother slows, and looks around them only to see what looks like a writhing green tear in the air before them. “What’s - what is that? Maman?”_

_“Your choice,” her mother explains. She finally turns to face her, a soft, almost sad smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You can start over, start fresh - get away from your troubles in a new world. We helped you walk away, encouraged you to leave -”_

_“What?” Cecilia interrupts with a frown. But she recalls the way it felt as if she was being guided as she packed her things, as she brushed past Doug and got into her car. “You - you helped me?”_

_“Of course we did, mon trésor. You needed our help, and we found a way,” her mother tells her._

_“Kiddo, this isn’t going to be an easy decision, and you don’t have a lot of time to make it in,” her father says. “The portal won’t stay open for long. But if you want - you can go. A new land, new opportunities -”_

_“What land?” she asks, even though she suddenly feels certain she knows the answer._

_“Thedas,” her mother answers almost as a sigh. “We can’t guarantee how you will manage, we can’t promise it will be better. But it will be something - new. A fresh start, a chance for happiness.”_

_“Thedas? Actual, real - Thedas?” Cecilia stutters out, looking between her parents once more._

 

_They have to be kidding, right?_

_This can’t really be happening - can it?_

 

_“Yes,” her father tells her. “It’s real. And you can go - seek out those adventures you always dreamed of, leave your past and troubles behind -”_

_“In favor of new ones?” Cecilia interrupts._

_“It won’t be easy,” her mother admits, but she gives a reassuring smile. “But you’re strong - you’ve always been strong. A chance to forge your own path, to take matters into your own hands - it could do you a world of good.”_

_“It could also get me killed,” Cecilia points out, heart racing as she thinks about what it could all mean._

 

_Thedas._

_Magic, Templars, demons, bandits - dangers, around every corner._

_How could that be better than what she would leave behind?_

_Then again - how could it be worse?_

 

_What did she really have to lose?_

 

_“I - I really have a chance to start over?” Cecilia asks hesitantly. “To go - to go to Thedas?”_

_“Yes,” her father answers with a solemn nod. “But only if you decide quickly.”_

_Normally she would make a list, weigh all the options. But she thinks about her evening, she thinks about the messages she received, the fact that a large portion of her life as she’s known it is now over._

_What did she have left but a job? One she had chosen but hadn’t let herself progress as far as she could in order to stay with Doug?_

_She chews her lip as she looks between the shimmering green portal behind her parents and their kind, understanding smiles. They were always so good, so loving, so caring - they couldn’t lead her astray._

_“If I - if I go through that portal, then I’ll - I’ll be in Thedas? Just like that?” she asks._

_“Yes,” her mother answers with a wider grin. “What you do once you’re there is up to you.”_

_“But I’ll be - in Thedas. I’m not really dead or dreaming?”_

_“You’ll actually be in Thedas,” her father assures her. “This is all real, Kiddo. Even us. And all we want is for you to be happy. To seek out a way to be content.”_

 

_Happy._

_In Thedas._

_Would she have adventures? Would she find love? Real, true, honest love?_

_Could she maybe meet - him?_

 

_She chews her lip some more as she stares at the portal, trying to think of any good reason to stay on Earth._

_A sudden impulse seizes her as she thinks about everything awaiting her if she chooses to go back - dealing with moving, the inevitable loss of friends as they choose sides, having to deal with Doug and his likely continual insistence that she’s overreacting._

_Or - she can take a chance on the slightly familiar unknown. A world that had comforted her in her sorrow, in her loneliness, in her wishes for something greater and more wonderful than what she had encountered on Earth._

_It’s a risk - but for once as she takes a deep breath to steady herself, she smiles and flexes her hands._

_“All right,” she tells them with a nod. “I’ve made my decision.”_

_“Excellent,” her father agrees, and he claps his hands together._

_“Well?” her mother prompts her._

_“I’ll go,” Cecilia tells them. “You’re right, I - I thought about getting away and now - I have that chance. I have to take it.”_

_“Oui! Oh, ç'est vraiment la bonne choix!” her mother cries, and she wraps Cecilia in her arms. “Oh, mon trésor, you’ve grown so much. I am so proud of you.”_

_“You’ll do great, Kiddo,” her father agrees, and he claps her on the back. As soon as her mother releases her from their hug he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. “Remember - you can do it. You’ll be fine.”_

_“Th-thank you,” she tell them, blinking rapidly to fight the tears coming to her eyes. “I - I miss you both so much.”_

_“We’re here, though,” her mother says. “We’re always here. Don’t ever forget that.”_

_Cecilia presses her lips together and nods quickly. “I won’t,” she assures them. “I won’t, I promise.”_

_“Well, it’s about time,” her father says after a moment, and he pats her on the cheek. “Go get ‘em, tiger. You’ll do great.”_

_“Bonne chance, mon trésor,” her mother murmurs, cupping her cheek with a hand as she blinks away tears._

_Cecilia nods at them both, squeezing their fingers and smiling in a way she hopes can reassure them that she’s going to be all right. Even though she isn’t certain she will be._

_Her heart is racing as she turns to face the rift, as she considers it and all of its implications for a moment._

 

_Nothing to lose._

_Everything to gain._

_And for once, a choice in the matter._

 

_With a sigh she glances behind her to take in the smiling faces of her parents, a sight she’s missed for years. She knows she likely won’t see them again, and she soaks in their loving gazes before she turns around once more._

_Only a moment of hesitation, and then she hurries forward. Taking it at a run feels easier, feels more natural, giving her less time to doubt herself and her decision._

_The world careens and almost flips upside down, as if she is being dumped out of the Fade into Thedas. She makes contact with the ground in a hard slam, her shoulder aching with the impact, and her head rattles as it hits something almost sharp._

_A moment to register that she’s cold, but her vision blurs - and then goes black._

 

With a deep breath, Cecilia sits up suddenly, gasping and panting as if she’s emerging from underwater.

“Beloved?” The murmur comes from beside her, and she turns her gaze to where Cullen is pushing himself to a sitting position. “Are you all right?”

The tender concern in his sleepy drawl is touching, and for several moments she simply stares at him. Too many emotions are crashing through her, the vivid recollections so fresh in her mind she’s momentarily speechless.

“Just - just another dream,” she finally answers slowly.

“A - a dream?” he repeats, and she can hear the frown in his voice.

“Well, memory, I suppose,” she corrects herself. “I - I think…”

She trails off, unable to even fathom how to begin to describe it to him. So much is clicking into place, things beginning to make sense, and she suddenly almost feels at peace with everything.

“Another memory of that night?” he asks when she doesn’t continue. He leans closer to her and rests a hand on her back, rubbing soft circles on her skin. “Did you learn anything more?”

“I - I think I know, now,” she answers. “Cullen, I - I think I _chose_ to come here.”

“You what?” he prompts, and he leans even closer to her.

“My parents, they - remember I told you they said I had a decision to make?” she asks, and at the nod she can make out in the moonlight she continues. “It was about - about coming here. They led me to a - a portal, it must have been a rift. And then, I - I had a choice. Go back to Earth, or - continue on, to here. To Thedas.”

“And you - you chose here?” he muses after a moment.

“I did,” she tells him with a smile. “Cullen, this - this changes everything.”

“How so?”

“This wasn’t - thrust upon me, this wasn’t some misfortune,” she explains. “I wanted to be here. I wanted a fresh start, I wanted to - take a chance.”

His hand continues to move steadily over her back, rubbing circles and caresses in silence, and she can tell he’s thinking hard. Eventually he presses his lips against her cheek. “I am glad you made that decision, if that is the case,” he murmurs.

“I am too,” she confesses. “It was a risk, I mean - I could have ended up dead, or at best - just, unhappy and lonely. But I - I took the chance anyway. And now...Cullen, I’ve never been happier.”

In the meager light of the two moons above them, she can see him smile as he reaches up to push her hair over her shoulder. “Neither have I,” he tells her. “If you did make the decision to come here, I - Celia, all I can say is that I am incredibly glad that you did. Happy beyond words.”

“Oh, mi alma - this explains so much, and if it’s true, if it’s how things really did happen, I,” she sighs happily, “I’m so happy I know. But I’m even happier I did it.”

She lowers a hand to her belly, holding his gaze in the moonlight. He reaches over and places his larger, stronger hand over hers, caressing her slightly rounded belly with a thumb.

“I love you, Celia,” he tells her.

“I love you, Cullen,” she responds, and she feels tears come to her eyes again.

She knows she can’t be entirely certain of every reason she had to accept the chance, to take the leap and fall into Thedas. But staring at Cullen, their hands resting where his child is growing within her, she can’t help but smile and feel perfectly at ease.

The one time she acted bravely, it had led her to everything she had dreamt of having, every happiness she had longed for in her life.

And she wouldn’t change a thing.


	44. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a bit like I'm dragging this out, but originally these few chapters were all going to be one gigantic one and that idea was just daunting to me, which caused part of my block. Breaking it up has been much easier to tackle, with how much is going on.
> 
> But also here - that means another update! Hope you enjoy, just some fun little comedic fluff with my favorite BROTP. <3

The sunlight casts her in such a beautiful scene as it pours in through the hole in the roof of the loft. For a moment he simply stares at her, watching as she breathes deeply, one hand resting palm-side up on the pillow beside her head. Her long, dark brown hair is spread on the pillow beneath her, framing her head and shoulders, some strands glittering slightly golden in the early morning light.

She looks so peaceful, and content, mirroring the way he feels as he sits watching her slumber. He should get going, put his armor on and start the busy day he has ahead of him - but for a few moments he simply sits and enjoys the sight of her. After all, he’ll be gone for weeks, and that’s if he’s lucky.

At that thought his eyes move lower, dragging away from her face to look at where the blankets rest over her body. How much will she have grown by the time he returns? Will it be more noticeable, rounder and more pronounced?

How much will he miss while he’s gone? Will the baby be moving upon his return?

His musings are bittersweet, but he thinks instead about how he’ll be working to defend her, to defend _them_ \- and building a better, safer world for them both. He’s filled with a stronger resolve than he ever has been before, with more to live and fight for than simply ‘doing the right thing’ as he has always strived to do.

Cecilia Rutherford.

By the end of the day, that will be her name. His wife - forever.

He smiles as his gaze wanders lovingly over her once more, pausing on the soft curve to her full lips, and then he finally sighs and pushes the blankets off himself. Clambering out of the bed, he turns back around and readjusts the linens and blankets, making certain she’s still tucked in.

It’s kept slipping his mind, but he needs to get the hole in the roof repaired. It won’t do to have her getting sick from the cold, and he determines to see to it today before he leaves, as well as the other project he intends to requisition.

As he pulls his armor on he moves quietly, intending to let her sleep longer. She had woken up in the middle of the night from one of her intense recollections, and after telling him all about it they had made love, moved by the realizations and the words they had spoken to one another.

She has to still be exhausted, and so he tries to let her keep sleeping.

Once dressed for the day he carefully makes his way down the ladder, moving slowly so that he doesn’t make too much noise. He skips the rung of the ladder that always creaks, and strides across the office once he reaches the bottom. Quietly closing the tower door behind him, he looks over the already crowded courtyard before he makes his way to the kitchens.

There’s always a selection of fresh breads and aged cheeses this time of morning, and today he finds a small amount of jam available as well. He makes up a small plate of a hearty roll, some cubed cheese, an apple, and a bit of berry jam. Filling a water skin, he smiles at the cook and their assistants before he leaves the kitchen. At this point they’re used to his presence, since he’s been coming every morning to seek out some vittles to accompany the morning tonic she takes to help with her indisposition.

Once more in the tower, he skips the rung that creaks and carefully makes his way up to the loft. He sets the small plate on the wooden nightstand that waits next to her side of the bed, placing one of Adan’s tonics before it. For a moment he stares at her sleeping soundly in the bed, and unable to resist he leans down to press a kiss to her forehead. She gives a soft hum in response, and shifts slightly until she settles again, nestled in the blankets and still such a vision for a moment he’s speechless and almost dazed.

Finally he turns away from her and heads back down to his office. There’s so much to prepare, both for Adamant and the arrangements they had made the evening before with Mother Giselle. He wanders through the courtyard to the small requisition area, watching the soldiers who are grabbing better steel and shields from what they had recently been able to craft en masse.

When he finally has a chance he steps forward to the requisition officer, trying to ignore the wide-eyed and apprehensive look they greet him with. “I have a few requests for Skyhold, if you think you can manage,” he begins, and he’s happy to see the younger man bob his head eagerly as he begins his instructions.

He finishes with the requisition officer and leaves the tower, intent on overseeing preparations and making certain they are all going well. As he begins to wander through the courtyard, however, he’s stopped by a large hand on his shoulder.

“Eh, mate - shouldn’t you be smiling and celebrating?” a deep, accented voice greets him.

He turns to face his Second and gives a small shrug. “I need to oversee the men -”

“They’ve marched into battle before,” Rylen dismisses with a casual wave of his hand. “They don’t need you hovering like a mother hen to make certain they know how to prepare. Come along - it’s not every day a man hurtles headfirst into matrimony like this.”

“Oh - so you’ve heard?” Cullen asks, fighting the smirk that wants to tug up one side of his mouth.

“Aye, of course I’ve heard,” Rylen answers, rolling his eyes slightly. “Don’t worry - I made certain you’ll have an audience and a -”

“Wait, I did not want -”

“Perhaps your lass does though, hm?” Rylen challenges. “After all, it’s a big occasion. She doesn’t seem to have anyone, so - why not bring the Inquisition together for her? To cheer her on and bolster her as she marries your sorry, mopey arse?”

Cullen shakes his head for a moment and then gives a few exasperated laughs in response to the teasing. “Fine,” he finally says. “Maybe you are right, maybe she needs support. She does not have much, here, after all.”

“There you are,” Rylen agrees. They enter the tavern and he leads the way, stopping before the bar. “I took the liberty of arranging a celebration after as well. The Inquisition, reveling in the tavern before they head off to battle. I think it will do wonders for morale.”

Cullen chuckles as he meets the other man’s gaze, noticing the humorous gleam in the aqua depths. “Are you certain that is wise? Recruits getting rowdy before a long march?”

“Of course, Commander,” his Second insists, giving a casual shrug. “They’ll be fine. It might be just what they need, considering we’re asking them to take on not just blood mages and demons but the Wardens as well. And in a blasted old keep in a waste of desert, no less.”

“Hmm,” Cullen hums, pursing his lips slightly as he looks over the tavern. Perhaps letting the men relax the night before will be a good thing, as the other man is suggesting.

A barmaid makes her way through the tables and chairs around the tavern, a smirk pulling up the corner of her mouth as she takes in the sight of Cullen and Rylen waiting at the bar. She’s wearing a black linen blouse, one shoulder of which is sliding off to reveal what looks like part of a light colored tattoo. Her dark hair is short and bounces as she walks around the bar to stop before them. For a moment her dark eyes wander over the pair, and then a slow smile parts her lips.

“Anything I can get you fellas?” she greets, quirking an eyebrow as she says it.

Cullen waits for a moment, and then looks to Rylen beside him, wondering at the other man’s uncharacteristic silence after his insistence that he take Cullen for a drink. To his surprise his Second is staring at the barmaid as if stricken, and then he shakes his head slightly as if trying to gather his wits once more.

“Aye, we’re - in need of a pint and some Mackay’s, if you have it,” Rylen finally says. He clears his throat and leans one arm on the bar, giving the barmaid a charming smile.

Her eyebrows raise as she takes in his request, eyes wandering over their armor. “Isn’t it a bit early in the day to be partaking like that?”

“Oh come now, lass,” Rylen implores her with a wink. “My mate here is getting married today.” As he says it he slaps Cullen on the shoulder again.

“Ah, so you’ll be wanting the whole bottle, then?” she quips, and she winks at Cullen. “Congratulations, Commander.”

He nods noncommittally, but raises his eyebrows when she does leave a full bottle of Mackay’s and two cups in front of him. She smirks and turns to grab their ale as Rylen uncorks the single malt and pours some into the cups.

“Rylen -”

“Just one, mate,” Rylen tells him. “It’s not everyday you get married to the woman who’s going to have your wee one, and I want to celebrate it with you.”

Cullen smirks and nods, conceding the other man’s point. Rylen lifts his cup as if to make a toast, but before he can speak the barmaid sets two tankards of ale in front of them. As if forgetting what he was about to do, Rylen turns to face her and smiles.

“So, lass - your - accent is interesting, where are you from?” he asks before she can walk away.

She considers him for a moment, and then shrugs. “The Imperium,” she tells him, then wiggles her eyebrows as if she said something wicked. “But before that Kirkwall, when I was young. No need to ask where you’re from, though, Starkhaven. Now, can I get you anything else?”

Rylen’s eyes dart around as if he’s trying to think of something else to ask.

“No, I think we are fine, thank you,” Cullen answers instead, noticing the way she’s trying to take a few steps as if trying to get back to work.

She nods and turns on her heel, making her way through the crowd to check on her patrons. When Cullen glances at Rylen once more, he sees the man eagerly watching her.

“Wanted to celebrate with me, is that all?” Cullen teases, and he lets out a few barks of laughter when the Captain turns a sheepish grin to him.

“Sorry, mate,” he says. “I’ve never seen that lass before, she’s...” He trails off and clears his throat. “I forgot myself for a moment. Well, here,” he raises his cup, “to the Commander and his bonny lass - may they find joy in this batty world of ours.”

Cullen smiles and raises his cup as well, tapping it against Rylen’s before he takes a sip. “Thank you, Rylen,” he says. For a moment he considers the single malt in his cup, remembering a time he had suspected his Second had been infatuated with Celia. But glancing at the other man and noticing how his aqua eyes are still following the barmaid around the tavern, he realizes the interactions he had witnessed between them were merely friendship, kindness. “So - you spent your time preparing a celebration instead of doing your duties readying the men?”

Rylen drags his gaze away from the barmaid and frowns at Cullen as if insulted. “Oh, aye, Commander, I decided to the Voids with duty in favor of festivities,” he scoffs. After a moment shaking his head and draining the rest of his Mackay’s he smacks his lips and reaches for his tankard. “I’ve been awake since long before the dawn, making certain all of the men had their orders, that requisitions were filled, caravans readied. I knew you’d want to do it all yourself, but you shouldn’t be focusing on that today.”

“Adamant is going to be a test for the Inquisition -”

“Aye, but you only have one wedding day,” Rylen points out. “And of course you’re batty enough to have it the day before a long march. So I took care of the rest for you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Cullen stares at his Second for a moment, and then begins to chuckle. “I - yes, thank you,” he agrees, not having realized just how much the other man had done to help. “Any more news today then, from the Approach?”

“The same as we’ve been receiving,” Rylen tells him, frowning down into his tankard. “I only hope we make it in time, the Warden and Champion made it sound as if we have little time to spare.”

Cullen nods silently as he remembers Celia’s words from the day before. She had told him everything she knows, imploring him to find a way to try to save both the Warden and Champion from the Fade. He’s been wracking his brain ever since, going over what she told him and trying to think of a way to do just that. For the time being he decides to keep it to himself, deciding that perhaps once on the road he can speak with the Warden and Champion alone.

Both have seen more than their fair share of oddities to accept what he has to tell them, he’s sure. It's coming up with a plan that seems daunting.

“You all right, mate?” Rylen asks, drawing him out of his musings over what’s to come. “Pre-wedding jitters?”

Cullen chuckles and shakes his head. “No, actually,” he insists, and he realizes just how true that is. With everything going on, the one thing he isn’t worried about is marrying Celia. “I am far more worried about Adamant than marriage.”

Rylen smirks and pats him on the back. “Glad to hear it,” he says. “That means she’s the right lass for you -”

“You two still doing all right?” a soft, posh voice interrupts. Glancing up Cullen sees the barmaid behind the wooden bar once more, wiping her hands on a rag.

Beside him Rylen straightens and gives another smile. “Aye, lass - how are you?” he asks.

She raises an eyebrow at him and then laughs. “Busy,” she answers simply, and then sets the rag down.

“Are you busy later? After all, there’s a wedding, a celebration -”

“You mean the one I’ll be working?” she points out, smirking.

“Well - I - so you’ll be here?” Rylen stutters eagerly.

For a moment the barmaid considers him and then shakes her head. “I bet you can figure that out on your own, if you think real hard about it,” she quips before she circles back around the bar.

“What’s your name?” Rylen calls after her.

She turns a curious smirk over her shoulder. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she tells him but she winks before turning away again to return to her work without another word.

Rylen stares after her, a hand over his heart as if she wounded him.

“Did you honestly ask a barmaid if she would be at the place she works this evening?” Cullen teases after a moment.

“I’m going to marry that lass,” Rylen murmurs, still staring after her.

Cullen lets out a few barks of laughter, almost choking on his ale as he does. “What?” he asks, laughing at the moony-eyed expression on his Second’s face. “Does she know that?”

“Hm?” Rylen hums, turning to look at Cullen as if coming out of a daze.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen mutters, laughing into his tankard. “Well, I know that you did what you could for preparations, but if you wouldn’t mind going over them with me again, just to be sure. That is - if you can manage to tear yourself away from your pining?”

“Oh - aye, let’s - preparations, right,” Rylen says, and he drains the rest of his tankard. With one last glance across the tavern he picks his helmet up from where he had set it on the bar and gestures for Cullen to lead the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who recognized her, I do have a Thedas version of Abigail, so no her appearance here is not as an MGiT in addition to Cecilia.


	45. Eavesdropping

It’s officially official.

Her breeches no longer fit.

With a sigh she stares down at the pants she can’t pull together even a little over her slightly rounding, bloated tummy. For a while now she’s been leaving the laces loose, not tucking her shirt in and hiding it that way. But now - well, now it seems she needs to find another solution.

She should have planned ahead for this once she found out, but somehow she just kept on as she was, simply dealing with the awkwardness of leaving her breeches unlaced. Spending so much time sick, and trying to come to terms with the fact that she’s really pregnant have taken up all of her time. Not to mention Cullen’s proposal, telling him the truth, the assassination attempt on Josie, seeing the planning for Adamant, her revelations  -

No, getting new clothes as she gets bigger hasn’t really been on her mind.

She turns to the side, looking in the mirror they hung above the dresser to study the rounding of her stomach. Honestly, she simply feels bloated, like she ate too much fast food, remembering how she used to feel after vacation or a road trip when she didn’t watch what she ate. Pouting slightly she runs a hand over her stomach, realizing she’s only going to get bigger.

It’s her wedding day, and she just feels fat.

But then the memories from the night before come back to her, the recollections of the Fade that she had had, the realization that she had  _ chosen _ Thedas. She wonders if her parents had known, if they’d had any inkling what could happen. She wonders if she had known, or if this was truly what she had hoped would happen when she ran through that rift.

She had wished for happiness, and running her hand over her stomach again she smiles to herself. For once, taking a chance had worked in her favor, and she knows she chose correctly. Pushing aside the thoughts of  _ fat _ she thinks instead of what’s to come, of the reason  _ why  _ her stomach is larger than normal.

Today, she is marrying Cullen Rutherford.

Her heart races and she smiles brightly, unable to keep herself focused on how bloated she feels for too long. After all, it’s her wedding day.

Which means she needs to find a dress.

She finally pulls her shirt on, but leaves off the leather vest like she has been recently. In a way she’s a little sad she’ll have to give up wearing the type of outfits she’s worn since the day Cullen helped her buy new clothes, all those months ago. Wearing them at first made her almost feel like she’s at a renaissance faire, but now she finally feels truly transported to another world, actually  _ living _ this.

Like she belongs.

Making her way down the ladder, she crosses to the door that will take her to the keep, intent on speaking with Josephine. If anyone will know where best to find a wedding dress in Skyhold, she’s certain it has to be her.

As she walks across the bridge she glances down into the bustling courtyard, looking over the Inquisition as it prepares to leave for Adamant. It’s something she never pictured before, something she hadn’t thought about. Playing the game, suddenly just - you were there, in the Western Approach assaulting the Keep. Cullen told her it will take weeks, and she’s honestly not surprised, thinking about how far they’ll have to travel across Orlais - and back. She isn’t looking forward to the wait and apprehension.

Solas is standing before his desk when she opens the door, and he glances up instinctively as he always does. When he sees her he offers a kind smile, and she timidly returns it. They’ve never really spoken, since she does her best to avoid him entirely - but today he almost seems to consider her as she cautiously crosses his rotunda. “I understand congratulations are in order, my lady,” he muses, still with his kind smile.

“Y-yes,” she answers. “Thank you.”

He inclines his head and goes back to studying the book he holds in his hands. She tries not to be obvious as she increases her pace to scurry out of the room, but he pays her no further attention.

She passes through the Great Hall, nodding at the nobles she has spoken with, making polite, passing comments to several of them as she goes. Tugging at the shirt that is also becoming too tight over her stomach, she finds herself hoping that none of them are noticing or judging her rather disheveled attire.

Upon reaching Josephine’s office, she’s surprised to find that it’s empty. With a frown she hurries through to the war room, thinking maybe she’s there going over the map or something. Again, though, she finds no sign of the Ambassador.

For a moment she stands, hands on her hips as she considers where to look next. And then she remembers she feels as if she’s seen Josie heading back from the courtyard gardens a few times recently, so she decides to start there.

She walks briskly to the nearby courtyard, the one that seems half-Chantry and half-gardens, the one that still feels so surreal to wander occasionally. Glancing around she doesn’t immediately see Josephine, but blue and silver armor glinting in the sun catches her eye and she stops in her tracks.

Alistair is walking across the gardens, toward another incredibly familiar figure - standing beside a child. Cecilia’s heart races as she watches him approach Morrigan, almost hesitantly, as if he is unsure of himself. With a quick look around she notices a tree near them, and she walks carefully to stand near it, as if she is merely considering or praying at the statue not far from her.

“You look tired,” Morrigan’s deep, slow voice greets.

“You look like a mother,” Alistair quips. For a moment there is only silence, and Cecilia peeks around the tree to try to see the reaction.

Morrigan simply smirks, but a few moments pass before Alistair looks down at Kieran beside her.

“So, this is - is him?” he asks. “Funny, I thought he’d look...different. I don’t know, more demonic - tentacles, and - fiery breath.” He says it slowly, as if he’s trying to make a joke, with just a hint of truth in it, as if he’s at a loss of anything else to say.

Morrigan quirks an eyebrow, and for a moment Cecilia almost wonders if she’ll snark him back, or snap at him. Instead something soft comes into her eyes and she shakes her head. “He is a perfectly normal boy, Alistair.”

The Warden considers for a moment before he slowly hums, “Uh-huh.” Another pause and then Alistair turns to Morrigan more directly and Cecilia clings to the shadows of the tree so that he doesn’t catch sight of her from his new angle. “And what does he know of - how he was made?”

“He knows his father was a good man,” Morrigan hurries to insist. She looks down at her feet for a moment, crossing her arms as she chews a lip. Finally she raises her gaze to Alistair’s, the momentary hesitation she had shown gone from her face. “I - I thought you deserved that much.”

Alistair’s eyebrows raise, and he looks taken aback for several moments as he stares at Morrigan. Cecilia claps a hand to her mouth, feeling almost moved to tears, cursing the small life growing inside her that’s been making her want to cry at the drop of a hat recently. But this, witnessing this -

“He’s changed you,” Alistair muses, almost mocking, yet with a touch of tenderness and softness in his tone.

“Don’t be absurd,” Morrigan rushes to snap, recoiling slightly as a sudden sneer comes to her face.

But if Cecilia isn’t wrong, the sneer almost looks forced.

An awkward silence falls, and for a moment she thinks perhaps the conversation is over, that Alistair will walk away. She’s surprised when he folds his arms and looks once more at the child - his son - now playing with something he found nearby.

“What’s his name?” Alistair asks.

“Kieran,” Morrigan answers softly.

Alistair nods. “It’s a - nice name,” he comments. More hesitation, and then, “I’m not sure I ever really,  _ truly _ thanked you.”

Morrigan raises an eyebrow, unfolding and lowering her arms slowly. After several moments she gives a few jerky nods of her head. “I - was glad to - help my friend. _Friends_.”

“I know Ash made certain you knew how much it meant to her, but I - never did,” Alistair continues, sounding almost as if he’s rambling. “I just wanted you to know, before I - well. Just in case, since we ran into one another. It means more than I can say that you helped save us both.”

“I mostly did it for Ash,” Morrigan muses, and a few soft chuckles sound from both of them. “But you are - welcome.”

Cecilia ducks behind the tree, hand still tight over her mouth as she tries to blink tears away. Her fears about Adamant return in full force, wishing and hoping desperately that Cullen will be able to think of a way. Maybe even simply telling them, preparing them for the scenario so that they don’t have to make an impulsive decision once they’re in danger will change things for the better…

She wipes at the few tears that manage to escape her eyes, and looks around the courtyard once more. No one has noticed her, which she’s thankful for, but she reminds herself why she came here in the first place.

As she thinks it she looks around, and a sudden gleam of familiar yellow satin catches her eye past one of the stone gazebos nearby. Clearing her throat and making certain her cheeks are dry once more, she hurries to seek out the Ambassador.

And instead stops in her tracks yet again as she tries to take in the sight before her.

The Inquisitor has Josephine against the wall behind her, his large, pale hands holding her golden cheeks. He slides his long fingers into her hair to stroke the lustrous, dark strands she has pulled back in her usual braid and bun. He’s kissing her with so much fervor as she clings desperately to the front of his uniform that Cecilia actually feels her cheeks heat in response.

She steps carefully around a corner out of sight, hoping they didn’t notice her gaping at them. From where she is, though, she can still hear the soft moans and panting breaths accompanying the slightly wet sound of passionate kisses. A light rustle of silk and a louder moan from Josephine, and Cecilia chews her lip as she wonders if she can manage to slip away without them seeing her. They’re in a secluded corner, but that means Cecilia’s only route to leave will pass by their field of vision.

“Bron - we need to return to our duties,” Josephine gasps. “Someone will notice we’re gone -”

“Let me kiss you longer,” Bron murmurs, and another shuddering moan from Josephine greets his words. “I’ll be gone for so long, Josephine. I’ll miss you, so much, darling.”

“I’ll miss you as well,” Josephine says, and her accent almost slurs her words with how breathless she sounds. 

For a moment the soft noises of kissing and rustling fabric reach Cecilia’s ears as she tries to politely ignore them, but a muffled, whimpered cry follows. She glances again at the escape route she could take, wondering if walking by normally will catch their attention or if she should merely bolt. They do sound incredibly busy, after all - maybe they wouldn’t notice. Standing here longer feels like too much, and she hates how she’s inadvertently invading their privacy.

Another long, erotic moan roots her to the spot though, and this time Bron chuckles as soon as it ends. “I suppose we can go back, now,” he says slowly. “So long as we can slip away later, during the celebration for the Commander and Lady Cecilia. Come with me to my room, Josephine. One last night before I leave.”

“I - I will,” Josephine says, and her voice sounds shaky and even breathier than it did before. “I wish I could go, too -”

“No, I need you here, where it’s safe,” Bron tells her firmly. “I did not just put in all that work to save you from the House of Repose only to lose you to another disaster. I can’t - I can’t, darling. Please.”

“I know,” Josephine says, and the prominent sound of  _ smooching _ follows the words. “Until later, my wonderful knight.”

After a moment quick, high-heeled steps sound on the stones, and Cecilia’s heart leaps into her throat. She’d meant to run away but now she’s about to be caught - and she hadn’t even intended to eavesdrop on their intimate moment.

“Oh!”

The surprised gasp from the Ambassador greets her, as Josephine stops beside the corner Cecilia is standing behind. She’s smoothing her hair with one hand, the other tugging and adjusting the flouncy silk of her skirt so that it’s fully covering her once more. For a long moment Cecilia and Josephine merely stare wide-eyed at one another, but before either can speak Bron appears behind Josephine.

“Ah - Lady Cecilia,” Bron greets. The slightest flush of color comes to his cheeks but he smiles easily, almost swaggering as he steps out of the alcove they had been in. “What a pleasant surprise. Allow me to congratulate you today, if I may.”

“Th-thank you,” she tells him. 

“Busy with wedding preparations? I thought maybe you would be hurrying around for your big day,” Bron tells her.

“I - actually, I needed to speak with - Josephine, if I - could?” Cecilia stutters, but she finds it difficult to meet her friend’s gaze, unable to take in the flush of her cheeks that evidences what Cecilia just accidentally overheard.

“Of course,” Bron tells her. “I was just heading to seek out the Commander, myself. If you will excuse me - Am-Ambassador, Lady Cecilia.”

He inclines his head to both of them and then takes long strides across the courtyard, walking straight and proud. Almost as if he’s strutting.

A brief moment of silence passes between the women before they look at one another at the same time, both opening their mouths to speak.

“Cecilia, I am so -  _ mortified _ that I -”

“Josie, I didn’t mean to - you were busy, I didn’t want to interrupt -”

They break off from speaking over one another, and Cecilia presses her lips together before she starts to giggle. Josephine joins her quickly, and they look down, both laughing awkwardly and nervously.

“I am  _ so _ sorry,” Cecilia tells her as her giggles calm. “I just need your help, I never  _ dreamed _ I’d interrupt - that.”

“It is not your fault, I should not have been - I meant to be in my office, working, but,” the Ambassador flushes deeper and looks away.

“But your sweetheart is leaving tomorrow for danger,” Cecilia finishes for her when she trails off. She reaches over for Josephine’s hand and lightly squeezes her fingers. “Believe me, Josie, I understand. Actually I was more concerned with interrupting your time together than I was letting you know I’d seen. I - I understand completely.”

Josephine meets her gaze and a soft smile pulls up the corners of her mouth. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “Now, what - what did you need help with?”

“I - oh, right - Josie, I need a wedding dress.”

At her request, the Ambassador’s eyes light up and a girlish smile brightens her face.


	46. Traditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the course of looking for a picture of a dress, I actually found one of Cecilia's face claim, Emily Browning, wearing the style of dress I wanted her to wear. Perfect little bit of serendipity!
> 
>  

“What about this? I know you said not ‘poofy,’ but it would look beautiful on you,” Josephine muses, holding up a blue silk dress. The sleeves are similar to the ones on her own dress, on the ones she normally wears, and despite herself Cecilia’s nose wrinkles.

“It’s - it’s blue, I was hoping for something - white,” she murmurs. “Although back home everyone would be making comments and teasing that I shouldn’t wear white, considering,” she gestures at her stomach, “but that was always a stupid tradition. I just - I guess I still always dreamed I’d wear white.”

“Why shouldn’t you wear white?” Josephine asks, furrowing her brows as she puts the blue dress back into her wardrobe.

“Silly ideas about how only virgins should wear white for their wedding,” Cecilia tells her.

Josephine laughs and looks over her shoulder. “Did _anyone_ wear white, then?”

Cecilia giggles and shrugs. “Mostly we all ignored it, it was a pointless ideal, really,” she muses. She moves to stand beside Josephine in front of the wardrobe and sighs. They had stood in the main hall for a while, looking at what the nobles were wearing, Cecilia trying her best to describe wedding dresses from home as she tried to find a Thedosian style that she liked. Only the problem was, nothing had appealed to her. They were all too poofy, too layered, and the ones that she might consider had tight corsets and the very idea of trying to fit into one had made her queasy.

“I wish I had more time for this,” she sighs. “Time to order something from a merchant, or -”

“We can still go see what they have,” Josephine suggests.

Cecilia nods and lets the Ambassador lead the way out of her quarters, back through the main hall. As they pass the doors to the library tower they open, and Dorian exits, followed closely by Knight-Captain Rylen. Cecilia slows, raising her eyebrows at the sight of the two men almost snipping at one another.

“Yes, yes, so you said,” Dorian is saying, and he stops at the sight of Cecilia. After a moment he charges over to her, folding his arms. “And why is it, my dear, that this _Templar_ was sent to tell me that you needed me? Is something the matter?”

“Sent to -” Cecilia frowns up at Rylen, noticing a slightly sheepish look in his eyes as he twirls his helmet in his hands. “What do you mean?”

“I took the liberties of letting him know your plans for this evening,” Rylen answers. “Commander said you needed his - assistance? I was trying to save you the trouble, I know you’re likely busy preparing -”

“Yes, and that’s the thing I’m a bit lost on,” Dorian interrupts. “A wedding? This evening? Has that little golden spawn gone to your head?”

“Dorian, I - Cullen asked me before he goes into battle,” Cecilia explains. “I wanted to ask you if you’d be there -”

“According to this big lout, everyone will be there,” Dorian says, glancing to the side at the Knight-Captain.

Rylen frowns at him but then shakes his head and returns his gaze to Cecilia, who’s staring wide-eyed at him.

“E-everyone? But I thought Cullen said -”

Again Rylen almost looks sheepish, clearing his throat as he stares at the helmet he’s holding. “I thought perhaps - a celebration, since you don’t have any family here. Apologies if I overstepped, I just -”

Cecilia reaches out and places a hand on his arm. “Th-thank you, Rylen,” she tells him, feeling tears spring to her eyes. “I didn’t expect - I - thank you.”

He smirks at her and nods, taking a moment before he tugs his helmet back on. “Well, I - have work to do, unless you need anything else, Lady Cecilia?”

“No, I’m - I’m just looking for a dress, but you can get back to...” she trails off and then suddenly giggles. “Actually, Rylen, there is one thing you can do for me. It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding, so could you deliver a message for me?”

Rylen raises his eyebrows at the words but he nods eagerly in response to her request.

“Tell Cullen he doesn’t have to wear that formal uniform,” she instructs him. “I know it makes him uncomfortable, tell him he can - he can wear what he likes.”

Rylen considers her for a moment and then nods before he turns to leave the main hall. At his departure Dorian faces her once more, arms folded. “What do you need me for, then?”

“I have a very special request, Dorian,” she tells him, stepping forward to take his hands in hers, encouraging him to unfold his arms. “I - he was right, I don’t have any family here. But you and I have become close, and I - I was hoping perhaps you would walk me down the aisle?”

“Walk you - you may have to explain that one,” he muses, though behind the humor in his voice is a tender waver. “Another silly Earth girl tradition? Like bad luck on your wedding day if the groom sees you?”

“And insisting on a white dress,” Josephine chimes in. She looks away from the nobles in the main hall, but subtly points to a noblewoman nearby. “How about that one?”

Cecilia scrunches her nose and shakes her head. A sudden realization dawns on her, and she smiles. Thedas may be her home, now, but that doesn’t mean she’s Thedosian. She keeps insisting on Earth wedding day traditions, and yet keeps trying to find a Thedas-style dress.

No wonder none of them are pleasing to her.

“I have an idea,” she tells them, and she takes Dorian and Josephine by hand to lead them out into the courtyard where the merchants are selling their wares.

There’s a larger selection than she expected, and the sight of an almost iridescent, pearly silk makes her squeal. She buys a whole bolt of it, and several beautiful silverite brooches catch her eye as well as a thin, pearl inlaid strip of heavy ribbon.

The three of them carry the purchases back to Josephine’s quarters, and Dorian pours a bit of wine for he and Josephine to sip as they watch Cecilia set to work.

“I can’t sew but I can drape,” she murmurs. “We had toga parties in college, and I got really good at making them actually look cute. To the point that I did it a few times for costume parties, Halloween - even a bridesmaid dress once when I got asked last minute -”

She glances at the pair watching her with bemused frowns as they peer at her over the rims of their wine glasses. With a giggle she continues to pull the silk off the bolt, playing with how it flows to see if she can get it to drape the way she wants it to. She strips out of the shirt and breeches she is wearing and begins to wrap and drape the diaphanous fabric about herself, double-layering it in places so that it isn’t as see-through, but leaving it sheer in others.

When she reaches her shoulders she gestures to Josephine. “Here, can you help me with the pins?” she asks.

Josephine sets her glass down and hurries to her side, helping to gather the fabric at the shoulders and fastening them with the brooches Cecilia bought. Cecilia carefully cuts the ribbon to the correct length and ties it, creating an empire waist to allow the rest of the fabric to hang loosely over her stomach.

“Well?” she asks when she’s done, holding the fabric hanging loose with the skirt in the crook of her arms like a shawl.

“It’s - remarkable!” Josephine declares, clapping her hands a few times. “I’m amazed, that looks - is that more a style where you’re from?”

Cecilia nods. “One of many, weddings were a big deal back home,” she explains. “Oh! I need - something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.”

“You need - what?” Dorian asks, frowning.

“It’s an old tradition, things you wear on your wedding day for good luck,” Cecilia tells him.

“Very superstitious culture, my dear,” Dorian muses.

Cecilia giggles and shrugs. “It’s funny, right? Such a happy day and everyone treats it like it will fall apart if it doesn’t go just so,” she says. “Still, though, it’s - it’s something I wanted to do. Well, so the dress is new. That’s one of them. Oh, and my ring - it was Cullen’s mother’s, so that’s - that’s something old. Borrowed and blue.”

“Shoes!” Josephine suggests, smiling. “I know just who to speak to about that.”

Cecilia realizes immediately who she must mean, and she giggles as she follows Josephine out of her quarters, taking Dorian’s arm with hers.

“So, this ‘aisle’ business,” Dorian begins as they follow the Ambassador through the keep.

“It’s easy, you just walk me to the altar -”

“Like a sacrifice?”

It takes a moment for Cecilia’s laughter to quiet and then she shakes her head. “Sorry, no - not like that. That’s what we called it -”

“No wonder you needed so much luck, being led to an altar to sacrifice -”

“Dori - Dorian, stop,” she pleads, putting a hand on her stomach as she continues laughing. “Fine, we’ll say - you lead me to Cullen and hand me off to him. Normally it was the job of a bride’s father, but - well, my father died years ago and I don’t have any family except, well - you, and -”

Dorian stops walking, turning to stare at her.

“I just mean - I mean you’re one of my closest friends, you saved my life, and -”

He takes her hands in his, staring at them for a moment before he speaks. “I never thought - I don’t have any friends -”

“You have me, Dorian,” she tells him, squeezing his fingers. “I was so alone when I got here, but you and I -”

“Decided to be lonely together instead?” he asks, and he smirks. But he clears his throat and squeezes her fingers as well. “You did much to help me not feel like such an outsider, Cecilia. I’d - I’d be honored to lead you to your sacrifice to that brutish Fereldan.”

Cecilia dissolves into giggles, and after a moment Dorian joins her. She knows he’s trying to distract from the emotional confessions they’re both making, and she finally leans up and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Dorian. For always being here for me.”

“Of course,” he says. “I’m - I’m happy you’re staying. Your friendship has been - unexpected, but - welcome.”

“Everything all right?”

Cecilia looks to see Josephine standing beside them, a soft frown of concern on her face. She smiles and nods. “Yes, everything is wonderful, I - oh!” She stares at Josephine for a moment, an obvious realization coming upon her. “Josie, I - I need a maid of honor!”

“A - what?”

“To stand beside me, I need - will you - will you be my maid of honor? You’re one of my dearest friends, and you saved my life -”

“You saved mine, Cecilia,” Josephine corrects, shaking her head and clasping her hands before herself. She looks for a moment as if she is struggling and then nods. “I - I take it this is a great honor, and I would - I would love to.”

Cecilia giggles and throws her arms around Josephine’s shoulders. “Thank you, so much.”

For a moment they embrace, and then Josephine clears her throat and steps back. “Well, shall we?”

“Oh, yes,” Cecilia agrees, taking Dorian’s arm once more to follow Josephine.

The Ambassador pauses before a door and knocks gently, frowning slightly to herself. “If she’s not here we can check the tower -”

But the door opens and Leliana’s gaze wanders over the three standing at her door before she smiles. “Yes?”

“Leli, I was hoping you could help us,” Josephine says. “We seem to be in need of - a pair of shoes.”

At this the Spymaster’s eyes light up, the corners of her mouth curling slightly into a small smile. “Of course,” she agrees, and steps back. Her eyes move to Cecilia as they walk in, carefully studying the dress she’s wearing. “Unusual but delightful dress. Did you - make that?”

“Sort of,” Cecilia tells her. She stops just inside the door, eyes wandering over the small room that must be Leliana’s quarters. They’re almost bare yet tidy, and there is a wardrobe in one corner that looks especially carefully maintained.

Leliana makes her way to the wardrobe, lowering her hood as she does. “I was just about to go check the reports from our scouts, but,” she opens the door of the wardrobe, “I always have a moment for shoes.”

Josephine and Cecilia giggle, and Leliana steps back to look at Cecilia’s dress with a pensive purse to her lips. The wardrobe she opened is full of differently colored silk outfits, and a full array of beautiful slippers and heeled shoes line the bottom. It looks like a secret treasure, a hoard of soft, delicate things tucked away for no one’s eyes but hers.

“With that silk,” Leliana muses thoughtfully, “what about these?”

The slippers she holds out are greyish blue, with delicate designs embroidered and inlaid with small stones and pearls. Cecilia’s eyes widen and she glances up at Leliana. “I - are you certain? They’re so -”

“It is your wedding day, is it not?” she asks. “Please, try them on.”

Cecilia carefully accepts the slippers, moving to sit on a stool before a washstand so that she can take off her boots. She slides the dainty slippers on and smiles when she finds that they fit. “They’re - Leliana, they’re perfect!”

“I’m glad to see they fit,” Leliana agrees with a smile. “They look beautiful with that dress.”

“They’re wonderful, thank you so, so much,” Cecilia says. She pushes herself to her feet and looks at the three surrounding and smiling at her. “I - I suppose now I just need something blue.”


	47. The Wedding of Cecilia Moore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Beautiful Disaster!
> 
> I'm sorry updates have been sporadic with this fic, but when I realized its year anniversary/birthday was upon me, I realized it deserved an update - and a special one at that! I can't make any guarantees on how frequent updates will be moving forward. The next chapter may hopefully be soon, considering I know all the details and just need to take the time to write it. Possibly within the next week, and I'll be working on an accompanying one shot as well, which I will be certain to link back (if you like Bron and Josie, I think you'll be happy).
> 
> To be quite honest, this fic has been a rollercoaster for me, for lots of reasons, and unfortunately it hasn't gotten easier as time has passed. I am determined to continue and finish it though, so patience please if it seems to take a while between updates. I wait until it's really calling to me before I attempt an update, because you all deserve for me to tell this story the right way instead of just updating to update.
> 
> The outpouring of love this fic has received from day one has been surprising but very welcome. It's only ever been a self-indulgent little project, which is why it's painful sometimes to know it's tied up in some difficult emotions and memories for me. The fact that it is so well loved by its readers, though, helps me keep up with it and push aside the drama it got embroiled in when I first started it. I'd like to take a moment as a writer to say - your kudos and comments really do mean so much, no matter how brief or small, and have kept me going with writing this when I was tempted to walk away from it entirely.
> 
> I appreciate the love and support it has gotten, and your comments always make my day. Thank you thank you, truly, and I hope you continue to enjoy what I'm doing with it moving forward! This fic mostly serves as a fluff and smut outlet for me, so expect more of that in its future, hehe. It's not over yet.
> 
> And now that I'm done rambling - I hope you enjoy the wedding! <3
> 
> xx,  
> Lara

“Wait, wait - Dori - I need - I need a moment.”

“My dear are you all right?” Dorian asks, stepping closer and leaning down to peer at her. He lifts her hands between them, softly stroking the back of her knuckles with his thumbs. “Second-guessing sacrificing yourself to the Ferelden brute on the altar of matrimony?”

“I - I just,” Cecilia takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, “what if - what if it’s not -”

She’s not even certain what she’s struggling with. All she knows is that as soon as Dorian had asked if she was ready, her heart had leapt into her throat and she couldn’t take another step.

 

_ What if it’s not real? _

 

Still, even after the memories the night before, the worry comes back to her. And despite how very real the feeling of her heart racing and the awareness of her belly are, she can’t quite get her feet to move.

 

_ What if it goes wrong? _

_ What if I’m not here? _

_ What if - what if I’m just making a widow of myself? _

 

“I just - I need - what if this is all a mistake, or I shouldn’t be here, or -” she rattles off, flapping her hands before her. She’s crying but laughing, uncertain what to feel, what to do. 

“A bit late to be questioning that, wouldn’t you say?” Dorian asks with one eyebrow raised. 

“I - I still don’t know if I belong here, or - what if I’m being selfish? What if I’m in the way?” she cries. “What if there’s someone else out there but I’m being too selfish and I - I shouldn’t marry him -”

When she takes a shuddering breath, Dorian pats her hand and sighs. “Love is inherently selfish, my dear,” he tells her. “And also inherently self ―  _ less _ . Unless you’ve somehow bewitched your golden lion, I’m not so certain there’s anything selfish about this.”

“I’m just - I’m suddenly so terrified,” she confesses, wiping at her cheeks. “I can’t - I can’t move my feet. My brain is saying ‘just walk down the aisle, the love of your life is there’ but my feet - won’t - move.”

“Well, if you’re that terrified,” Dorian muses with a chuckle, “is now a good time to tell you I found a way to send you back?”

Cecilia glances up at him, wide-eyed and stunned out of her panicked tears. “You - you did? I thought you were joking -”

“No, my dear, it is possible,” he tells her slowly. He reaches up with a hand and smoothes his moustache pensively. “If you’re this terrified - well, I suppose I have a way out for you. A chance to run, perhaps?”

Hardly a breath passes before she adamantly shakes her head. “What? No! No, I’m not -” But she cuts off as Dorian begins to laugh. “You - were you lying?”

“Whether or not I was, it seems you have your answer,” he points out, continuing his laughter. “So, now that that’s settled - dry those eyes of yours. We have important places to be.”

“I - I’m suddenly very glad I asked you to walk me down the aisle,” she says, giggling to herself as she wipes under her eyes. “Do I look a mess? Or is it obvious I’ve been crying? I don’t want Cullen to think I’m sad, or -”

“Doubting marrying him?” Dorian finishes for her. He brushes her long hair off her shoulder and then smiles. “You look radiant. Now - I was promised a bottle of Vint-9 so if you don’t mind…”

“Oh you,” she teases, elbowing him slightly before she turns serious and reaches up to cup his cheek. “Thank you, Dorian, for everything.”

“Yes, yes - I’m wonderful and the world doesn’t deserve me,” he quips, shifting on his feet and attempting to put on an air of nonchalant indifference. “Shall we, my dear?”

Cecilia takes one last deep breath, feeling a calming sensation spread to her fingers and toes, and then faces the door to the gardens. “All right, Dori.”

Dorian takes her hand in the crook of his arm once more, standing regally as he begins to lead her slowly through the doorway and into the courtyard chantry beyond. Tightening her grip on her bouquet of blue wildflowers they had found, she holds her head high, delight and apprehension tangling inside her until her heart continues to race even faster than it was. 

The doubts aren’t gone, and as they round the corner she tightens her grip on Dorian’s arm, momentarily considering pulling him back. She can only see one side of the courtyard, and the sight of so many people - is that Varric? And there’s Bull, and Krem, and the Chargers - Sera, letting out a whoop from where she stands on a bench to see over the crowd. Is that - Cassandra? Yes, there along the front, almost seeming to do her best to fight a smile and keep a stern face.

Dorian continues to lead her into the courtyard, and she can finally see the other side. Blackwall, with his arms folded, Solas standing stoically behind, and even - Vivienne, who she’s barely had a chance to speak with outside of an official capacity, yet she’s smiling to herself. She barely has time to see glimpses of other familiar faces, Morrigan, Alistair, and even Hawke, if she’s not mistaken, but then she looks forward and everything else melts away.

It’s strange to think how many doubts she had had only moments before when she meets his gaze, when she sees the slow smile spreading across his face at the sight of her. All notions of surreality that  _ these _ are the people at her wedding, that  _ he’s _ the one waiting for her at the end quickly fade away.

True to his word Rylen seems to have made certain Cullen is dressed comfortably, wearing a crisp, clean shirt, dark leather breeches, and a leather jerkin. As if in solidarity, Rylen is standing beside him wearing similarly relaxed, informal clothing, providing silent moral support to the decision. But Cecilia hardly notices beyond the fact that he’s there - all she sees is Cullen, and every worry she had had seems a distant thing. Especially when she sees just how comfortable and at ease he seems to be as he watches her approach.

A smile brighter and wider than she’s certain she’s smiled in her life pulls across her face, and as Dorian leads her slowly down the aisle created by the part in the crowd, all she sees is Cullen waiting for her. They stop before him, and Dorian holds her hand out, presenting it to Cullen even without her having instructed him to do so. Cullen takes it in his, placing his other over it, and draws her closer to where Mother Giselle stands.

They never break one another’s gaze, even as Josephine takes her flowers from her, and there’s a glimmer in Cullen’s eyes as he stares at her.

“You look - you look breathtakingly beautiful, beloved,” he tells her softly.

“Thank you,” she murmurs in return. “You look handsome as well, mi alma.”

The words make him tighten his fingers where they hold her hands, his smile brightening, and she realizes she’s not certain she’s ever seen him looking so happy.

What Mother Giselle is saying she isn’t sure, simply holding amber eyes above her as she giggles breathlessly, giddiness and pure joy replacing panic and doubt as if they’d never existed. All she’s aware of is the feelings of Cullen’s firm, slightly roughened hands holding hers, the smell of his earthy soap, the look in his eyes.

“I believe this is the part where  _ you _ make a promise,” Mother Giselle’s voice cuts into their peaceful moment, reminding Cecilia that they’re not the only two in that courtyard.

“Oh, right,” Cullen mumbles. He clears his throat slightly and his eyes intensify as he stares into Cecilia’s eyes.

 

_ Oh my god, the words… _

 

“I swear unto the Maker and the Holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days,” Cullen says, his voice firm and never wavering.

 

_ This is just like… _

 

“Cecilia,” Mother Giselle begins, and Cecilia takes a deep breath, trying to shake the dreamlike feeling that’s fogging her mind. “And your promise?”

“I swear unto the Maker and the H-Holy Andraste to love this man the rest - rest of my days,” Cecilia repeats, tripping slightly over her nerves and the unfamiliarity of the vows. Despite her slight hesitations, though, Cullen smiles, as if he understands and is still pleased.

Cullen pulls her closer with one hand, placing his other in the small of her back as he presses her to him. His kiss is slow but sure, at least at first - soon he tightens his hold on her and slants his mouth, and it’s all she can do to stay steady. As if from far away she hears cheering, clapping, several whoops and catcalls. Nearby a few barks of laughter accompany a playful chastisement that Cullen will have her to himself later. After a moment Cecilia realizes it’s Rylen’s teasing voice scolding the Commander.

Cullen finally releases her, and she grips his arms to hold herself upright for a moment, staring wide-eyed at the smile he gives her. A few hands pat her on the back, an accented voice full of tears muttering congratulations and praising what a beautiful ceremony it was. Flowers are pressed into her hands, and when Cullen turns them to face the crowd she sees the entire courtyard dissolving in ecstatic cheers, Sera jumping near Bull and wolf-whistling, the Chargers chanting something she can’t quite make out over the noise.

Slowly Cullen begins to lead her down the aisle, smiling as people clap them on the shoulder, yelling congratulations over one another. He nods curtly and Cecilia merely laughs, smiling at everyone who stops her to wish her well. A shower of leaves rains over them, and Cecilia lets out a playful shriek as Cullen looks around to see who it was - only to mutter, “Maker’s breath, that elf.”

A chattering of heavily accented jokes and laughter follow, and Cecilia glances up to see Sera perched on Bull’s shoulders, getting another handful of leaves ready. The sight only makes her laugh harder.

They’re held up in their progress by Cullen’s lieutenants shaking his hand, and Bron also stops him to wish them well.

A soft hand on Cecilia’s elbow seems to quiet the other noise for a moment, and she glances around. “Not selfish,” a familiar, monotone voice says quietly, but she hears it clearer than anything else. “He said a prayer, and you made a wish - and the spirits listened. There is no one else, because there is you. Happiness, true happiness. You both deserve it.”

With that Cole smiles at her and releases her elbow, and the cacophony of noise returns in full force, disorienting her. The spirit allows himself to be jostled by the crowd around them and disappears, and Cecilia finds herself being swept away by Cullen and the rest of the Inquisition on the way out of the courtyard.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Knight & His Lady](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17454602) by [LarasLandlockedBlues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LarasLandlockedBlues/pseuds/LarasLandlockedBlues)




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